If It's Not One Thing
by Gabrielle Lawson
Summary: it's another. Adventure story with murder, mystery, new spooky aliens, and lots of angst! Features Dr. Bashir
1. Chapter One

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

**A Novel by**

**Gabrielle Lawson**

**Winner: Best Deep Space Nine Story, .Creative Awards 1996**

This story is available in print!

It's been scrunched down to only 154 pages (scrunched, not cut!). It's bound and includes cover art. For details, see my Stories in Print page.

Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, and all the characters and settings thereof, are the property of Paramount Pictures. However, the situation and all new characters in this novel are completely of my own creation, as are the majority of the details of Dr. Bashir's background. Therefore this story is copyrighted by the author. You are welcome to download the story and share it with others but it must include this disclaimer. Please drop me a line at to tell me what you think.

Acknowledgements

I'd like to thank Karl Smith and Doug Williams for their help in knowledge and resources for the writing of this book. I'd also like to thank the newsgroup on the Internet. This was my first effort at writing Star Trek or even science fiction (and it was written before TPTB gave Bashir a backstory). The feedback I received after posting as encouraged me to keep it up. And the Award for Best DS9 Story 1996 was the best Pick-Me-Up I ever received. Thanks.

I also thank God for giving me the ability to write, the Czech Republic for giving me the time, and Paramount for putting Deep Space Nine on the air. I'd also like to thank Siddig El Fadil. Without his portrayal to bring Dr. Julian Bashir to life, there wouldn't have been a story to write at all.

Historian's Note:

This story takes place before the episode "Life Support" in the second season. The Dominion has not yet become a major threat.

**Prologue **

_Orange and red light reflected itself in Dr. Grant's tear-stained eyes long after the fire was put out and the children had been taken away._

It had been her idea, he remembered angrily, and then felt guilty for the anger. He had agreed with her. He would have lived on Romulus if that's the way she wanted it. He loved her that much. And she loved history. So they lived in the ancient, half-timbered house in Stratford, Shakespeare's hometown. Her eyes had lit up when she first walked through the door, and he thought they must have sparkled ever since.

He'd watch her as she longingly gazed out the window. Sometimes, she had told him once, she dreamed she was really there, in Elizabethan England. She could almost see the gentlemen and their ladies in their horse buggies driving to church on a Sunday morning.

_She'd lay her hand gently on the window sill and try to feel it. He never quite understood it, but the past was a tangible thing to her, something she could touch, if only she could get close enough. It made her sad that it was always just out of reach. He would ask her why she bothered with something that depressed her, and she'd say that love doesn't always make you happy. Sometimes you have to hurt to know it's real. Besides, she'd say, she had no choice. History had taken hold of her whether she could touch it or not._

They had lived there for eight years. But old houses, like that one, can burn. And now, the house was gone, her dreams were gone, and, worst of all, she was gone.

**Chapter One**

Doctor Bashir leaned back in his chair, put his feet up on the counter in front of him, and sighed. Everyone was entirely too healthy these days. Maybe, he was too good of a doctor. Or maybe people just weren't getting sick. As a doctor, he should be happy. Healthy people is a good thing. But as a _young _doctor, not long out of Starfleet Medical, he was bored.

Just to keep himself occupied, he decided to see if he could find a cure for the Telurian Plague, one of the worst terminal diseases in the Federation. But, after five hours of getting nowhere, he'd gotten nowhere. Not that he could have gotten far in so short of time. Scientists and doctors had been trying to solve that one for decades.

"Dax to Bashir."

_Jadzia. _Julian quickly dropped his feet to the floor and sat upright. "Bashir here," he answered.

"Julian, the _Ranger _is docking at Upper Pylon Two. I thought you might want to know."

_They're early_, he thought. They weren't due for another six hours. But he was not complaining. It wasn't like he was busy. The _USS Ranger _was a brand new science vessel, commissioned at Starfleet's 40 Eridani Yards, with all the latest equipment. One of the medical officers on board had promised to show him the new biobeds and diagnostic sensors. Besides, some of that new equipment was for the station, and more importantly, for the Infirmary.

"Thanks," he said. "Are you sure you wouldn't like to join me? I hear they've got a sensor array that's better than the Galaxy Class."

Dax hesitated before answering. "Well, my shift _is_ ending." She seemed uncertain. "You know, I've heard about those sensors." Her voice sounded much more confident. "I'll meet you there."

Bashir smiled. "Good. Bashir out." He quickly called for a nurse to watch the Infirmary, and he was halfway down the corridor before the door slid shut behind him.

Maylon strolled casually down the bright, wide corridors of the _Ranger_. It was a beautiful ship, sleek in its design. The quarters were spacious, the equipment ample to answer almost any request. Hushed pastel colors helped to give the effect of comfort, a mobile home away from home wandering through the stars. And a great contrast to the ugly, dark, menacing look of the space station he'd seen from the observation lounge as the _Ranger _approached.

The colors and gentle curves of the corridors didn't help Maylon much. He had been stressed and restless, making sleep difficult the night before. But the opportunity to see an old friend lifted his spirits, and he forgot his worries as he strode with long strides toward the airlock.

* * *

Bashir saw Dax waiting for him when he arrived at the docking port. She stood calmly, with her hands clasped behind her back. She smiled softly as she always did. "A Gidari ship just docked," she mentioned as Bashir came toward her. She watched the airlock as the _Ranger_ approached.

"The Gidari?" Julian was surprised. "Why are they here?" The Gidari liked to be secretive. They did not often come to such crowded areas as Deep Space Nine, which had become a crossroads for tourists and merchants as well as those seeking to explore the unmapped regions past the frontiers of Federation space.

Dax shrugged. "I've heard a lot about these new Intrepid class ships," Dax said, changing the subject. They waited for the _Ranger _to finish docking. "They're quite impressive. The long range sensors are supposed to reach five percent farther than those of the Galaxy class ships. It's perfect for unexplored territory like the Gamma Quadrant."

"I've been waiting for the medical equipment they've got for quite some time. The Cardassians just aren't up to Starfleet's medical standards."

"Hey, Julian!" A young human in a blue-trimmed Starfleet uniform was leaning against the frame of the airlock doors, his arms crossed over his chest. "You ever figure out that preganglionic thing?"

Bashir's shoulders dropped, and he shook his head sadly. "It was a trick question," he replied imploringly.

The young man smiled then and walked over to shake hands with the doctor. "Well, it's still better than I did. And who might this be?" he asked, his eyebrows raising in interest as he nodded to Dax.

"Jadzia Dax, this is Doctor Maylon," Bashir answered by way of introduction. "Jadzia is our Chief Science Officer."

"So what'd you do to get stuck in this tin can on the edge of the known universe?" Maylon asked, rather obnoxiously.

Bashir rolled his eyes slightly. The man annoyed him, but he could get him a look at the new equipment on the _Ranger_.

Dax shot a quick glance to Bashir. The corners of her mouth turned up ever-so-slightly to show her amusement. She didn't answer the question. "What do you think of the _Ranger_?" she asked Maylon in return. "Is she all they've said she would be?"

"Even better." He waved for them to follow him as he started toward the airlock. "The sensors are great. And they're very sensitive, too. We could pick out the individuals of an ant colony down on Bajor if we wanted."

Bashir and Dax walked behind him. Dax slowed just a bit and inclined her head slightly to signal that Bashir should slow down as well. "How do you know him?" she whispered to the doctor.

"He was my roommate," he answered resignedly.

"I'm sorry." Then she smiled and nodded as Maylon continued his lecture on the accuracy of the sensor arrays and diagnostic equipment aboard the science vessel.

* * *

Bashir was trying to be polite by asking questions about the ship and his ex-roommate's career. But that only set him up for more obnoxious remarks about his posting to the frontier station and the fact that he was the _only _doctor to request this post. Dax pitied him. She'd only known Maylon for five minutes. Bashir had had to live with him.

A tall, distinguished-looking man with dark hair, lightly ticked with grey, passed them and Dax stopped. Maylon noticed and stopped his oration. "Was that--" she asked.

"Doctor Alexander Grant," Maylon answered before she finished the question. "You know him?" he asked, smirking arrogantly.

"I've heard of him," Dax replied, as she stared after the man. He had on a old-fashioned, long, white scientist's coat. "He practically wrote the book on exo-biology. All his works are required reading."

The man continued until he was out of sight. "He's a good doctor, too. Maybe I can introduce you to him." Maylon was quite serious now. "He's a great guy. Real personable. Sickbay's just around the corner here." He turned back toward the corridor, and Dax turned to follow.

But Bashir lingered for a moment. He had been staring down the corridor where the man had disappeared. He looked a little pale. He stood very still.

"Julian?" Dax asked in concern.

Bashir said nothing. He hesitated for a moment then turned to follow as if nothing had happened.

"Are you alright?" she asked quietly as they walked.

"Fine," he answered.

And he didn't say another word for the rest of the tour until Maylon asked, before they left the _Ranger_, if they'd like to meet Dr. Grant. Dax agreed enthusiastically, but Bashir shook his head. "I really need to get back to the Infirmary and see to the new equipment," he said absent-mindedly. "Thank you for the tour, Maylon." Then he walked back to the airlock.

"We'll have to have dinner or something!" Maylon called after him. "Did he seem a little distracted to you?" he asked Dax. But he didn't give her time to answer before he took her arm and led her to the Biolab.

* * *

Bashir walked quickly down the crowded station corridors to his quarters. He locked the door behind him and leaned against its cool metal surface. He placed his hands over his face and let his back slide slowly down the wall. He didn't even bother to turn on the lights.

* * *

Inara Taleyn worked quickly. Her delicate fingers seemed made more for manicures than tinkering with computers, but she'd always been told that she had a talent for mechanical things. And she burned with conviction. So she had put her talent to use for the cause of freedom for her people. That was why she now crouched in the crawlway next to an open panel full of couplings and power conduits. She still strove for that freedom which she felt her people were denied.

The Federation wore a different face, she conceded. They sincerely thought they were helping Bajor. Bajorans had been humiliated, exploited, demoralized, and worked to death by the Cardassians for sixty years. And Bajorans had fought those sixty years, and died by the thousands, to rid themselves of their foreign oppressors, to once again be allowed to follow their Path as their pagh led them. The Federation didn't follow the same path.

The Federation's path lay in exploration. Their path was to lay bare every mystery, every wonder that the galaxy held, to wipe out "superstitious belief" and replace it with science. Science was their god. To them, nothing was truly sacred or divine. How then could they possibly "help" Bajor? They had even explored the most sacred: the celestial temple.

_The "wormhole," _she thought with contempt. They used the celestial temple, the dwelling place of the Prophets, as if it were merely a corridor to another piece of space. They defiled it, corrupted it, and opened it up to space-going traffic. They were leading the Bajorans on a path away from the Truth. This could only lead to unhappiness and torment.

Inara Taleyn was devoted to a cause: The Federation must go and leave Bajor to its pagh. Bajor must once again be the home of Bajorans, the chosen people of the Prophets. She'd fought once to get rid of the Cardassians, and she fought now to get rid of the Federation, who did not want so much to destroy her people as to lead them to destruction.

Inara's immediate assignment seemed unimportant to her, but she would follow orders. Many people had fought for the freedom of her planet and had given their lives in "unimportant" ways. Her own brother, she remembered, had died to save another, an "unimportant" boy caught stealing a loaf of bread. That boy grew up to join the resistance and sacrifice his own life for the sake of two hundred people. Even the unimportant jobs were a step along the Path. Besides, she knew things would pick up.

In fact, Inara was engaged in a diversion. Her toiling in the access crawlway would lead to nothing of immediate importance. But little by little, her work and the work of others would send a message to the Federation. And if they didn't listen, Inara and her "colleagues" would quite willingly speak louder.

* * *

The Biolab was beautiful, if a lab could be called that. It was white. Bright, clean, sterile white. The equipment stood out starkly with its black surfaces and colorful readouts. Dax thought that it made her lab look like a cave. The Cardassians obviously didn't care much for bright colors and good lighting.

And the _Ranger_'s lab was open, not cramped in any way. The counters stood at least five feet from each other, so that one could work easily at any of them without bumping into someone else and possibly interfering with a test or analysis that one of the other scientists was working on. This one laboratory made all of DS-Nine seem tight and confining.

There were three people in the room besides Dax and her guide. Two women, a Vulcan and an Andorian, wore Starfleet blue. They were running DNA scans on the computer. The other was a human man. His white coat almost seemed to blend into the walls and tables. He had his back to the door. He was running a systems analysis on some of the analytical devices. Apparently, he hadn't heard them come in.

Maylon cleared his throat. "Doctor Grant." The man in white turned and smiled when he saw that he had guests. "May I present Lieutenant Jadzia Dax, Chief Science Officer of Deep Space Nine."

"Ah," Dr. Grant replied, taking Dax's hand. "A fellow scientist. I trust Doctor Maylon has given you the grand tour of our little home." He shook her hand firmly and then released it. His accent was English. But then Dax knew enough about him to know that he was from England. London, to be exact.

"I'd hardly call it little, Doctor," she replied. "I hope we did not disturb your work."

"Nonsense." He walked past her into the corridor and waved for her and Maylon to follow. "There's no work to do. . .yet. We're just running some last minute checks before we head off to the Gamma Quadrant. I'm starving. Perhaps you both would join me for dinner? It is about that time."

Dax nodded, though Maylon declined. He had work to do, but would perhaps stop by a little later. Maylon turned back toward sickbay, and Dax followed Grant to the airlock.

"Lieutenant, I believe I saw you earlier. You had another companion. A handsome young lieutenant. Did he tire of the tour?"

"You're quite observant," Dax replied. "That was Doctor Bashir, our Chief Medical Officer. He had to get back to the Infirmary to check on the new equipment. He's quite excited about it. He was getting rather frustrated with some of this Cardassian equipment."

"He seems dedicated. That's good. Bashir, did you say?" he asked as he stepped through the interior hatch of the airlock. "I know some Bashirs. Perhaps I know his family. Where is he from?"

"You just might," Dax affirmed. "He's from England like yourself."

"I shall have to meet him. Well, Lieutenant, you're the resident here. Where might we take our repast?"

"Quark's is as good a place as any," Dax answered. "Follow me." She led them toward the turbolift. As the doors hissed closed, she calmly said, "Promenade," and the lift began to move.

"Perhaps the good doctor would join us for dinner," Grant suggested. "It must be quite fascinating being a doctor on this station. It's a bit like the crossroads of the galaxy. You probably see many different species."

The turbolift stopped, and they stepped out onto the crowded, noisy Promenade. "Well," Dax smiled, "you'll probably see them, too. And most of them will be at Quark's."

* * *

Dr. Bashir declined the invitation for dinner when Dax called to ask him to join them. He had said that he was not hungry and that he had work to do. The first part might have been a lie, but the second part couldn't have been more true. Technicians from the _Ranger _were in the Infirmary refitting the biobeds, upgrading and updating the Cardassian computers and scanners there, and bringing in supplies.

Bashir was overseeing all of it. No matter what others might have thought of him personally, he was very serious about his work. He took no chances. He checked everything for himself. People's lives relied on the equipment in the Infirmary, and he felt it was his responsibility to make sure that equipment was up to standards . . . or better. He didn't want anyone to die due to faulty equipment. He wanted all his patients to have the best chances possible. And so, he did not rely on the assurances of technicians, or even of engineers. He had to be sure. He had to see for himself.

And the work kept him preoccupied. The busier he kept, the less he remembered that he hadn't had dinner and the less he worried. But as soon as he was finished and the last technician left, it all came naggingly back to him. His stomach growled, and the worrying zapped his energy. He decided that it was probably a good time to get something to eat. Surely Dax and the others would be done by now.

Quark's was as busy as ever. The _Ranger_'s crew was having a grand time, it seemed. And Quark was greedily fidgeting from table to table, making sure that everyone was satisfied . . . and paying. Shouts of "Dabo!" rang out occasionally over the hum of voices talking and laughing.

Bashir looked around as he entered, scanning the tables for familiar faces. A large group of people, mostly Starfleet and Bajoran officers, had gathered around one of the tables near the back. Sisko, Kira, and the O'Brien's were there, standing, not sitting, around the table. They seemed to be enjoying themselves, and every so often the whole group would erupt in laughter. He was just about to walk over and join them, when Mrs. O'Brien kissed the Chief on the cheek and walked away. Through the gap in the crowd, he could now see who was sitting there, and he stopped. It was him. Dr. Grant.

Bashir had hoped that they'd be gone by now. It had been two hours. It didn't take two hours to eat dinner, especially when the replicators were acting up again. What was there to linger over when the food you ate had little or no flavor? Or worse?

Another round of laughter shook the gathering at the table. Bashir didn't feel much like laughing, but he had to admit that he was curious. He wanted to know what they were talking about with that man that could possibly be so funny. He crossed the room, climbed the stairs to the second floor, found a table that overlooked the crowd, and listened.

But of course, Quark's was entirely too noisy, and Bashir couldn't make out a word that was being said. But he could watch. There wasn't a whole lot to see, but he felt that at least he was doing something. And as he waited for the waiter to bring him his food, his mind wandered back to his childhood and the dreams he'd had of his family. His first family.

They weren't good dreams. This particular one was reminiscent of _A Christmas Carol_. He was nine years old peeking in through a window he couldn't open at what was left of his family. His father, dark hair and eyes, sat in an overstuffed chair near the fireplace. George, eleven years old, was laughing and trimming a brightly lit Christmas tree, while a six-year-old Elizabeth--he always imagined her with long blond hair, even though their parents both had dark features--sat on her father's lap holding the age-worn book from which she read. Julian himself, in his dream, could hear their laughter and see their happy, smiling faces. But no matter how hard he knocked on the window, they never seemed to hear. It was as if he didn't exist.

And, in fact, he didn't. He remembered sitting in his room at the boarding school where he was first sent, listening to the other children on Parent's Day. They eagerly told of all they had learned, showed them every piece of art they had made. And their parents had proudly cooed over every one, laughing and hugging their children. And Julian had sat alone, silently, trying to understand why his family didn't come.

He hadn't seen his brother since before he'd been sent away, and his sister had been a baby then. He had to guess at what they looked like. But their father, he knew. He'd seen his face in the pictures at school, the Academy, and Starfleet Medical. And that was the man who sat below him now at Quark's, telling stories that made everyone laugh. Everyone but Julian. He didn't exist.

A Ferengi waiter, grinning widely in hopes of a tip, set a plate of salad in front of him. Bashir tossed him a coin without a thought, and the Ferengi walked away waving cheerfully to his comrades. Bashir looked at the plate of perfectly green lettuce and ripe cherry tomatos topped with cheese and Thousand Island dressing. It looked like perhaps the replicators were doing their job. Another round of laughter from the table below filled his ears and echoed inside his head. Julian pushed his plate away from him slowly. The salad seemed to him to have lost its color. Besides, he wasn't hungry anymore.

* * *

Maylon sat sipping his raktajino and observing the crowds around the Dabo tables. One Dabo girl in particular had caught his attention. She was attractive, and he watched her long arms and graceful fingers as they took money from the unlucky gamblers. But she only half held his attention, despite her scantily-clad beauty.

He also watched the Ferengi as they flitted from table to table like flies around a garbage dump. _Scavengers_, he thought contemptuously. They scampered around looking for an opportunity to cheat someone, or to steal something. Even the pretty Dabo girl was a part of their scheme. They exploited her, as they exploited others, in their selfish quest for profit.

One of the Ferengi, a young waiter, kept returning to a back room every five minutes or so. He always walked back carrying a tray of drinks or food. He usually returned to the more crowded areas of the bar with an empty tray and a vaguely worried expression. But when he reemerged for the sixth time, he seemed slightly triumphant. Frankly, Maylon was curious. The waiter had to be up to something.

From his table near the bar, Maylon could see past the archway of the next room to the doors of the room which the Ferengi entered, but he could not see inside. So when the waiter came out again, carrying a tray piled high with empty glasses and dirty plates, Maylon rose from his chair and crossed under the archway to the next room.

The bar was crowded here, too, and there were no empty tables. Maylon stood in the archway as he looked for the best vantage spot to see inside the room. There were no tables beside the doorway, the first on the right, opposite the stairs that led to the busy holosuites. In fact there were few lights there either. But several meters away he noticed a fellow crewman sitting with her back to the door which so held the attention of the Ferengi waiter.

T'Para didn't hear him walk up to her. But he was not surprised as the din in the bar effectively blocked out all but the closest sounds from serious contemplation. And serious contemplation is what T'Para preferred. She looked up when he stood beside her.

"May I join you?" he asked, smiling.

"That would be acceptable," she answered evenly. Her face showed no emotion. Vulcans were an interesting people in Maylon's book. To live without emotions. It was curious.

Maylon sat, and from his seat he had a nearly direct view of the doorway where the waiter would, if he held to the pattern, enter in a few minutes. T'Para was scanning the crowd silently. He noted that she didn't have any food or drink in front of her. "You aren't eating," he said, trying to make conversation.

"I have no need of food at this time," she answered, watching his face. Her head tilted slightly, signifying interest. Maylon saw this only out of the corner of his eye. He had been again staring at the doors to the back room. The Ferengi was about to enter. The doors opened, and the waiter entered, carrying a tray of fresh drinks. But the doors closed quickly behind him. Maylon only caught a glimpse of a gray, hooded figure before the doors again blocked his view.

"Are you looking for someone?" Maylon asked his Vulcan companion, as if he'd been paying attention to her previous reply.

"No," she answered. "However, I do find the number of different species at this establishment quite fascinating." She went on, naming and describing several species, while Maylon nodded and tried to appear interested. Actually, her tone reminded him of a textbook he once read.

The doors behind her were opening again. The Ferengi emerged with the same tray he had entered with, still full of Gamzain wine. He was not smiling. But still, Maylon saw little more than the hooded figure before the doors closed again. "Klingons and humans have had turbulent conflicts in the past," T'Para continued, "yet they drink here together. And the Gidari, usually a secretive and often distrustful people. . ."

"The Gidari?" Maylon asked, cutting her off. She had his interest now. "The Gidari are here? There are so many people. Why would they come here?"

"They have been in the room behind me for an hour now. The Gidari are not isolationists. They are, in fact, ardent capitalists, much like the Ferengi. This is a Ferengi establishment. Perhaps they are discussing business."

_That's it_, Maylon thought about the gray, hooded cloaks he glimpsed through the door. _Of course. More scavengers_. "I wonder what business they're discussing," he said aloud.

"An object of art," she answered, much to Maylon's surprise. "I do not know any details, but the Gidari do seem to be getting impatient with the Ferengi." T'Para was not the textbook he thought she was. She was attractive, in a down-played sort of way, very unlike the Dabo girl in the front room. But she was also quite observant and full of useful information.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, and he was pleased when she didn't decline the offer. She did have need of liquid refreshment.

* * *

"How old is your son now, Commander?"

"Jake'll be fourteen his next birthday," Commander Sisko's voice was deep and firm, but also friendly. But his tone was quiet and just a bit sad. Sisko was alone now with Dr. Grant. He could see Quark impatiently washing glasses at his bar. _It must be closing time_, he thought. But neither he nor his companion seemed quite ready to leave. "He still misses his mother. And so do I."

"I don't think that part ever goes away." Dr. Grant had a faraway look on his face. He stared at the glass of blue liquid he held in his hand, but Sisko could tell he wasn't seeing the drink. "My oldest, my son, was six years old when we lost his mother. It's been twenty-five years. Just last month, he told me how he still expected to see her face when he called home. And I . . . I think about her every day."

Sisko nodded. "Sometimes I still have problems with Jake, usually things Jennifer handled. Like getting him to do his homework. I worry about what he's doing when I'm not around to watch him. But he is almost grown. It must have been harder to raise such young children on your own."

"It was difficult at times. But the children's grandparents helped me immensely. They were very supportive. Helen's mother watched the children after school and was there whenever Elizabeth needed advice of a more feminine nature. My parents, too, were happy to take the children when I was away at this conference or that."

"How did it happen, Doctor?" Sisko asked, and then added, "If I may ask."

Grant looked up and smiled. "Please, call me Alex." Then his smile faded, and he returned his gaze to his glass. "Our house burned. I know that sounds ridiculous now, but Helen was an historian. We lived in Stratford, near Shakespeare's home, in a half-timbered house with wooden floors and a thatched roof. I'm not sure what started the fire, but when it was over, she was gone. That memory will never leave me, as long as I live."

As Grant gazed into his glass, he forgot the drink, his company, the dimly lit bar, and its impatient owner. He forgot the station, and for what seemed to him the millionth time, he was back in Stratford staring at their burning home. His wife, Helen, was there, still with him.

_"JULIAN!!" her voice was pained and panicked. She turned to him. "Where's Julian?" she asked frantically, clutching their daughter tightly. "Have you seen him?"_

Grant couldn't answer. His mind raced. His heart ached. His son. He looked around him. George was there, staring at the house. His eyes were wide with fear. But where was Julian? George's mouth opened, but he said nothing. He raised his arm, pointing. Pointing back at the house.

And then Helen was pushing the baby into his arms. He could hear it then, the screaming. And she was running back into the house, into the flames. He cried after her, but she did not stop. Her child was in the house, their child. His child. Julian. 

"Doctor Grant? Alex?" It was the commander. Grant looked up at him. "Are you alright?"

Dr. Grant followed Sisko's gaze to his own hand. The blue liquid in his glass flickered with the reflection of the dimmed lights. His hands were shaking. "I . . .," he began, "I was just remembering." His face felt hot, flushed.

"I'm sorry. I brought up bad memories."

"No, don't be," Grant smiled and rose to his feet. "I'm fine, really. I'm just tired. It has been a rather long day, and I'm sure you need some sleep as well."

"Yes," Sisko smiled in return. "And by now, Jake is probably worrying about me."

"Turnabout _is _fair play." Grant could hear the Ferengi sighing at the bar as they stepped into the corridor.

* * *

Quark sighed with relief. He waved to Rom impatiently, and his brother quickly locked the door. His waiters scampered around the bar cleaning tables and searching for fallen coins and other objects of value. Quark reached under the counter and pulled a bottle of Maraltian Seev-ale from a shelf under the bar. From behind him he grabbed a tray of six glasses. He straightened his suit and walked quickly to the back room, where a group of Gidari had been waiting since dinner.

Gray-hooded heads turned to look up when he entered, but Quark could not tell if they were angry or not. He had sent Lek in periodically to offer drinks and refreshments to the group as he waited for Sisko and that doctor to leave. "I'm very sorry," he apologized. "I had a few guests who refused to leave. But perhaps now we can talk. Ale anyone?"

* * *

"Ambassador Bashir is sleeping. It _is _the middle of the night here, Lieutenant." The assistant who had answered the communication seemed very annoyed.

Bashir thought a moment before answering. He'd made the call on impulse, seeking comfort from his parents. But something inside him had known even then that he would not find it there. There were some things he and his parents never talked about. He argued with himself. Just seeing their faces would be comforting. He hadn't seen them for several months. But he couldn't wake them to talk about what they wouldn't talk about. There would be no comfort in that. "Just," he finally began, "just tell him I called."

"And who shall I say has called?" the assistant sighed, rolling his eyes.

"His son." Bashir replied. The screen abruptly changed, falling to blackness as the assistant cut off the communication without even saying he would relay the message. Julian let it sit that way for a few more moments and then turned off the viewscreen. He felt the silence in his quarters now and listened to it, trying to hide in it once again as he did when he was a child. His counselors had worried, and the other children had laughed, when he wouldn't speak for them. He had made the silence within himself and didn't want to disturb it. And as he faded off to sleep, Julian tried hard to hear the silence and not let certain thoughts disturb it. Morning would come soon enough and carry the silence away.

* * *

Soundlessly, across the station, things started to go wrong. Nothing exploded, no one died. No one really even noticed. No one except Inara Taleyn and a few of her "colleagues." Lights flickered in empty corridors. Temperatures rose or fell as people slept. Chronometers stopped or ran too fast, and security sensors went off-line.

When these things finally did start to register in Ops, technicians were sent out to fix them. And while the technicians chased down the "bugs" in the system, other people were taking advantage of the sensors that weren't operational. In the nearly deserted Promenade, a young Bajoran male emerged from the shadows near the Klingon restaurant and painted in large red letters, "Aliens! Go home!" In the darkened corridors of the habitat ring, a Bajoran man with graying hair quickly scribbled the word "Heretic" in Bajoran on the doors of Federation officers quarters with red paint.

And in a dimmed airlock, Inara Taleyn worked quickly to override the door's sensors, so that she might slip aboard the _USS Ranger _unnoticed. After she had the sensors down, she released one of the mooring clamps, then opened the doors and stepped aboard. She knew that the _Ranger_'s officers would quickly find the problem, but she didn't plan to be there when they did. She took a small map from the bag that hung from her waist, checked it quickly, and walked swiftly down the sleek corridor of the Federation vessel.

Within minutes she had located the crawlways that would give her access to the ships computer systems. From her bag, she extracted a small computer which she connected to the control panel on the wall. The virus she downloaded worked rapidly. The lights in the tube where she worked instantly went down. The computer's glowing display confirmed that other systems were faltering or failing as well.

Her own mini-computer worked perfectly though, and she tapped into the ship's own transporter. The crewman who was stationed in Transporter Room Two saw no sign of the transport, and Inara Taleyn reappeared in the room she shared with her cousin Liian, smiling triumphantly. She hoped the Federation would now get the message. Back on the _Ranger_, bridge officers would be staring in bewilderment as their systems fluctuated and failed.

* * *

_"Where's your mother?" he screamed at the boy, shaking him by the shoulders. The boy stared back at him without comprehending. His eyes, filled with terror, stood out a stark white in his almost blackened face. "Where is she?"_

"Let him go!" Someone was yelling behind him. "Doctor Grant!"

And then he was aware of the commotion. People were coming from every direction. A shuttle from overhead was trying to put out the fire. But where was Helen? She hadn't come out with the boy. She had thrown him out the window.

"Put him down." The voice was near him now.

Grant looked at the boy again. He could feel his hot skin, his burnt clothes. The boy was coughing, gasping for air. But Grant couldn't let go. His hands wouldn't work. They remained gripped on the boy's shoulders. The boy struggled weakly to release himself, his scorched hands clutched at Grant's arms. And then his eyes fluttered and rolled up under his eyelids. The boy sagged limply in Dr. Grant's grasp. He felt something cold against his neck, vaguely heard the hiss of a hypospray, and then everything went black. 

Grant sat up suddenly, drenched in sweat. "Lights!" He was surprised at how loud his own voice was. Instantly, the computer obeyed, and his quarters lit up. Too brightly. "Dim!" he shouted angrily, covering his eyes from the glaring light. Again the computer obeyed, and the light reduced, but to a level barely above pitch black. The _Ranger _seemed to still have a few minor bugs in her systems.

Grant ran his fingers through his graying hair. They were shaking. "Computer," his voice was softer now. The computer chirped musically to signify that it waited for his command. "What is the time, please?"

A feminine, but lifeless, voice answered politely, "The time is 0213."

_Two o'clock_, he thought to himself, dropping back onto his small cylindrical pillow. He quickly thought of the soft feather bed he and Helen had shared in Stratford. It was much more comfortable. But he pushed the thought away. He was no longer in Stratford, and he no longer had Helen. These thoughts brought the fire back into his mind, still fresh from dreaming. And he could almost feel the weight of his four-year-old son hanging limp in his arms.

Tears stung softly at his eyes. He took his pillow from under his head and threw it in frustration against the far wall. But he could not make the memories go away. He reached for the cabinet beside his bed. His fingers shook, almost spasming, as they searched for the button that released the drawer. It slid open with a soft hiss, and he fumbled around inside until his fingers wrapped securely around a hypospray.

* * *

Harglin Nastrof walked alone through the dimly lit corridor that took him around the docking ring toward his ship, the _Gindarin_. Twenty bars of gold-pressed latinum slammed against his leg at each step, but it was a good feeling. _That Ferengi is a fool_, he thought. Quark had, in an attempt at apology, offered the Gidari an hour at the gaming tables. Harglin and his partners did not forgive the Ferengi, but they'd hardly turn down such an opportunity to cheat him. Dabo was, after all, a simple game.

The others had left the bar five minutes before Harglin. It was the custom of the Gidari to give the youngest partner such an opportunity without competition. They sacrificed those five minutes of winnings that Harglin might gain the experience that could benefit them all later. And while it was true that the others had carried away much more of the Ferengi's latinum, Harglin had done well. He was proud of his twenty bars, and the others would be as well.

Harglin turned the corner, and the lights went out. He clutched his bag closer to his chest as he waited for the emergency lights to come on. But a minute went by with no emergency lights. His eyes would adjust, he thought. So he waited. He could hear his heart beat in his ears. His instincts told him to be alert.

Another thirty seconds. He could see nothing. He couldn't even tell if his eyes were open. He remembered childhood games in Nodgaren Cave, where the darkness was thick like a blanket and the rush of water covered all other sound. But here there was no sound, except his own breathing and his quickening heart.

He had to move. He was vulnerable here in the darkness. He told himself that it was just a malfunction. This was an old station with many problems. There was no need to fear. Any assailant would be as blind as he. He took a tentative step forward. His soft-soled boot brushed the floor quietly, but to Harglin's heightened senses, it echoed in the silence of the dark.

And then there was light behind him, illuminating his feet. But it was not the orange glow of emergency systems or the even light that usually lit the corridor. "Don't turn around," a voice behind him said. "Put the latinum on the floor." Was it the Ferengi?

Inside, Harglin's heart sped up again. The adrenaline began to flow through him, filling him with energy. He thought of turning to face his assailant, and he thought of running with his winnings and disappearing again into the darkness. The Ferengi were short-legged and weak in comparison to his own kind. But was the Ferengi armed, and was it the Ferengi? "Why should I?" he asked, trying to sound fierce and unthreatened.

Two footsteps sounded softly but surely behind him, and Harglin felt the point of a weapon against his back. He wasn't sure which weapon, but the odds favored a phaser or other energy weapon. He himself was unarmed as such weapons had not been allowed on the Promenade. _Where are the lights?_ his mind thundered. But his calmer side reminded him that his life was worth more than twenty bars of gold-pressed latinum. Gain is impossible from beyond the grave. Harglin knelt, feeling the pressure of the weapon on his back lessen until he could no longer feel it at all. His assailant appeared reasonable. He placed the bag on the floor.

As he stood up again he felt a light weight hit his chest and shoulders. The light behind him disappeared at nearly the same moment, so he could not see what had occurred. Before he could react, the thing on his chest tightened around his neck so quickly that his breath was cut off. Instinctively, his hands flew to his neck, but the cord was too tight. He could not get his fingers under it. Harglin struggled in hopes of loosening his assailant's grip on the cord, but already he was falling to his knees.

The cord tightened again, and Harglin heard the sound, muffled in his ears, of his assailant grunting as he strained. Harglin's arms felt light and airy, and yet he found he couldn't lift them. His lungs cried out for breath in his chest for what, to him, seemed like hours, and his eyes struggled in vain to see. But the darkness was again a blanket, and he could once more hear the rushing of the waters in Nodgaren Cave. They roared in his ears and in his head. The cord tightened again, and the waters became as silent as the darkness in the corridor. There was a muted thud as dead weight fell against the corridor floor.

copyright 1997 Gabrielle Lawson


	2. Chapter Two

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Two**

O'Brien stepped energetically from the turbolift. He drew an inquisitive sideways glance from Major Kira when he hopped down the step to the floor of Ops with a wide grin on his face.

"What's gotten into you?" Kira asked, smiling back at him.

"I think I've finally got the replicators on the Promenade working," O'Brien answered in a tone that almost asked for applause, "and I think they'll stay that way."

"That's wonderful," Dax said, not even looking up from her station. "Now you'll have time to work on Upper Pylon Three. The lights seem to be malfunctioning."

O'Brien looked crest-fallen. "Emergency lights?" he asked, but he already knew the answer. His life couldn't possibly be that easy. He'd been repairing malfunctions in this station from day one. In fact, he'd awoken this morning to a long list of repairs that had been carried out during the night and a list, only slightly shorter, of things that still needed fixing.

"Afraid not, Chief," Dax replied, sympathetically.

But Kira, still looking rather amused, announced, "I've been getting calls from six angry Klingons who are not happy with running into the walls. One thinks he broke his nose. I'd tell him to go to the Infirmary, but he can't find it."

"Send Bashir up there," O'Brien retorted, though he wasn't sure the doctor could have found them either. Without emergency lights those corridors would be as dark as caves. He walked over to his own console and stabbed at a few lighted displays. "Ah," he sighed. "It's not that bad." Most of the other problems had been minor as well. He punched a few controls and rerouted power to the lights in Pylon Three. Then he smiled triumphantly as his console indicated that light had been indeed restored to the pylon.

"Oh, hell." His smile abruptly faded. "If it's not one thing, it's another."

"What now?" Kira asked.

"The gravity," Dax called from her station. Both she and Kira were trying to keep from laughing. But then Kira was answering more angry calls from the people in the corridors.

Lights began to flash red on O'Brien's console. He'd have laughed, too, if it wasn't so annoying. And if he didn't have to fix it. The artificial gravity had become cut-off in the pylon. Luckily, emergency systems were in effect to keep people from floating all over the rest of the station. He picked up his tool kit and headed for the turbolift, just as he heard Kira calling for medical personnel.

"And bring your gravity boots," she added.

* * *

"Oh, I can bring gravity boots," Dr. Bashir replied as he prepared his medkit, "but how do you propose I get the patients down from the ceiling?"

"Just keep telling yourself it's an adventure."

Julian could hear Kira's amusement over the communications system. "Seriously, now," he began, "what will I be dealing with?"

"Klingons with bumps and bruises mostly. At least one has a broken nose. O'Brien's on his way. He should have the gravity restored soon. Good luck. Kira out."

Bashir checked the chronometer as he reached for his tricorder. 0931. Still early. It didn't look as if he'd be bored today. He called for two medical technicians to follow him and headed for the turbolift. The med-techs met him at the lift, but the doors closed only half-way after they'd all stepped inside. One of the med-techs jabbed at a control on the wall, and the doors closed slowly. "Upper Pylon Three," Bashir said softly. But instead of the turbolift moving, the lights went out. The second med-tech said something in Bajoran. Bashir was sure she was cursing. Then amber emergency lights replaced the darkness, and the lift began to move.

"Murphy's Law," Julian said, recalling something one of his professors at Starfleet Academy always used to say.

"What's that?" the first med-tech asked.

"A twentieth-century Earth saying. 'Whatever can go wrong, will go wrong.'"

"That Murphy sounds like a wise man," the Bajoran woman said, with just a hint of cynicism. The turbolift doors jerked open, throwing bright light from the corridor inside.

Bashir felt himself become weightless as he stepped from the turbolift, but his boots held him securely to the floor. O'Brien was doing his best to kneel near an open panel. "Lights are out in the turbolift, Chief," Bashir shouted over the commotion.

"Oh, hell," O'Brien said in reply without looking up.

Bashir quickly assessed the situation. Nearly a dozen Klingon warriors were floating near the ceiling. Nearly all were snarling angrily. Many were cursing in Klingon and being generally counter-productive.

"I'll have 'em down in just a minute," O'Brien yelled. "I'll try to make it gradual, so they don't all come crashing down." Technicians were trying to calm the Klingons so that they might not injure themselves when the gravity returned. The med-techs joined in the din, offering their assistance to the general uproar. A few of the Klingons saw the wisdom in the help they were offered. They took the hands the technicians extended and pulled themselves closer to the floor.

Most, however, seemed more interested in their pride than the help of mere technicians and med-techs. One, a female, kicked the poor man who was trying to help her. But given the state of gravity, it did her more harm than good. The man swayed backward slightly, gripping his stomach where she had planted her booted foot. The woman, however, went careening into the wall on the other side of the corridor.

Bashir rushed over to try and offer his assistance. "Please," he shouted. "The gravity will be on in a few minutes. The closer you are to the floor, the less you have to fall."

"Who the hell are you?" the Klingon woman barked contemptuously, clutching her shoulder.

"I'm your doctor," Bashir answered firmly. "And I wouldn't want you to be injured further. Now give me your hand," he continued, extending his hand in her direction, "unless you're afraid of me."

That drew a snarl from the woman, but the Klingon male beside her laughed quite heartily. "I'm not afraid of any human," she hissed, spitting out the last word.

Bashir stood firm. "Then give me your hand."

The woman growled, baring her teeth, but extended her good hand toward the doctor. Bashir tried not to show any reaction to the strength of her grip as she clamped down on his hand. He pulled her down toward him, just as the gravity kicked in, and it wasn't gradual. The woman fell only a few feet and was able to land on her feet. A few of the others thudded loudly as they fell to the deck.

Bashir was tending to the female's shoulder when one of the med-techs called to him. "Doctor, we may have a concussion, here."

Bashir wondered what anyone could possibly have been doing in zero gravity to manage a concussion. He grabbed the nearest technician, who was still smarting from the Klingon's boot. He thrust the instrument he'd been holding into the man's hand, and moved it toward the woman's shoulder. "Hold this here," he said, showing the technician what was needed. The man seemed nervous about the whole situation, but Bashir did not give him time to argue. He walked away, leaving the man with his snarling assailant.

* * *

Maylon pushed his chair back from the counter and sighed heavily. "Done!" he said aloud. He and Dr. Pynar had just finished purging all traces of the virus from the medical computer. It hadn't been easy. They'd been working for six hours straight. But now it was clean, and, more importantly, it was disconnected from the main computer. It would not be reconnected until they were absolutely certain that it could not be corrupted again.

Beside him, Dr. Pynar put her arms straight out behind her, laced her fingers, and stretched her shoulders. She threw her head back to stretch her neck as well. "Lunch?" she asked Maylon without looking over at him.

"You bet," Maylon answered. "What are you in the mood for?"

"I'd like something Klingon, actually."

Maylon gave her an amused look. "I didn't think Zeons liked Klingon food. None of the ones I've met do anyway."

"Well, I do," she answered defiantly. "Well, as long as it's not still moving."

Maylon laughed. "Klingon it is then. But let's go to the station. I wouldn't trust the replicators here. Besides they've got the real thing there."

"Fine, but let me call my brother." She touched the insignia on the front of her uniform. Nothing happened. Just as she was about to give it another try, it chirped as usual. She crossed her fingers. "Medical to Commander Pynar."

"Pynar here," came the answer. "Is there a problem, Doctor?"

"No. I'm just calling to see if you're ready for lunch. How are things up there, Trafe?"

"Lieutenant Jeffrey thinks he's just about got the answer. Let me see if I'm free. Commander?"

Maylon and Pynar could hear the bridge conversation over the communication line. "How's communications?" Commander Lairton was asking.

"I've just about got it. A minute or two more, I think."

"Finish that, Trafe, and you're free to go."

"Thanks. You get that, Trayla?"

"Yes, we're going for Klingon on the station. We'll save you a place."

"Okay, I'll meet y--" Suddenly the lights and nearly everything else went out in sickbay, and, from the sounds over the commline, everywhere else, too.

"Defilers!" The usually calm and friendly voice of the computer spat venom with the word. "You shall not defile the Celestial Temple!" And then the power returned.

"Shit!" Commander Pynar's voice still came over the commline.

"Jeffrey, report!" Commander Lairton ordered.

"It must have had a secondary trigger. Whoever planted the virus knew we would try to clean it out."

"And we hit the trigger," Commander Pynar concluded. "It doesn't look like I'll be meeting you for lunch, Sis. How's Medical?"

Maylon and Pynar were running a diagnostic just then. "We're all clear here," Pynar answered, looking over at Maylon. Maylon nodded as the display confirmed that the medical computer was functioning within normal parameters. "We're not connected to the main computer."

"Good," Commander Lairton said. "Keep it that way for now."

"Yes, sir," Pynar replied.

"Bon appetit!" Pynar could hear the sarcasm in her brother's voice.

"Medical out." She turned to Maylon. "Let's get off this ship while we still can."

* * *

The Replimat was busy. _Good_, Bashir thought, _the replicators must be working properly_. He hadn't eaten since the day before, and his stomach nagged at him with aches and rumbles. Bashir scanned the restaurant for a familiar face. Then he noticed Dax, sitting at a table with one of the waiters from Quark's bar. The waiter smiled as he stood, uncovering his pointed, uneven teeth. Dax saw Bashir then and waved for him to have the seat the Ferengi was vacating.

"How's the food today?" Bashir asked as he slid into the chair across from her. "It looks quite good, but looks can be deceiving."

"You don't have to worry this time," Dax replied, smiling serenely. She always seemed to smile serenely, Bashir thought, like she knew something everyone else didn't. Of course, having lived seven lifetimes gave her a degree of wisdom most twenty-nine-year-old women didn't have. "The food is fine. O'Brien seems to have mastered the replicators."

"Great. I'm starving."

A waiter came and Bashir ordered. The waiter returned quickly with his plate. "Thank you," the doctor offered. He lifted his fork and took a bite of the perfectly brown, juicy piece of meat in front of him. He closed his eyes in delight. "For this," he said, "O'Brien deserves a commendation." The salad looked good, too.

"Or at least our eternal gratitude," Dax added.

"I doubt the replicators will last _that _long." Major Kira Nerys had walked up behind Dax. "We've had problems with everything from the lights to air density this morning. Mind if I join you?" she asked.

"Of course not," Dax answered. Bashir noticed someone getting up from the table next to him, so he grabbed the man's chair before anyone else could have it. He pulled the chair to Dax's table and offered it to the major. She took it without showing any gratitude to Bashir. But he was used to that. Kira didn't like him very much.

"You seemed to be in awfully cheerful moods this morning," Bashir addressed the women seated with him. Both gave a slight chuckle, remembering.

"I guess so," Dax replied. "I suppose we had such a good time last night that it just carried over. The situation just struck us as funny."

"O'Brien had just fixed the replicators when the lights went out in Pylon Three," Kira explained. "He just fixed that and the gravity cut out."

"I could just imagine those Klingons running into the walls," Dax added, speaking more to Kira than the doctor. "How was it up there?" she asked Bashir.

"Do you mean before or after the Klingon woman kicked Ensign Darnen in the ribs?"

Kira looked up suddenly. "Doctor Grant," she smiled pleasantly, grabbing another chair. "Please join us."

Bashir almost choked on the salad he was eating. With their talking and the noise of the crowd, he had not heard anyone walk up. He tried to hide his reaction and grabbed his glass of water. He thought he caught sight of a glance from Dax, but she was greeting Dr. Grant when he looked up. No one else seemed to have noticed.

"Ah," Dr. Grant said, extending his hand in Bashir's direction, "you must be Doctor Bashir. I believe I've seen you with our Doctor Maylon and the lovely scientist here on the _Ranger_."

Bashir tried to act naturally and shook the hand that was offered. "Yes, Maylon was kind enough to give us a tour." In his own mind, he had to choke out each word, though he sounded normal to his companions.

"An interesting character, that one," Grant said as he pulled his chair closer to the table. "How is it that you know him, if I may ask?"

Bashir was in the middle of a bite of food, so Dax answered for him. "They were roommates at Starfleet Medical."

"I'm sorry," Grant remarked, giving Bashir a knowing look. Julian caught himself smiling at that, and quickly took another bite of food. He didn't want to smile at anything Grant said. He didn't want to like him in any way.

"We missed you at dinner last evening," Grant was saying. "I do hope the lieutenant here relayed my invitation."

"Yes, she did," Julian replied. "I was much too busy. I'm sorry. We received quite a bit of new equipment for the Infirmary. I wanted to check it all in."

"You're a dedicated doctor. That's always reassuring," Grant said warmly. "You seem quite young for Chief Medical Officer. You must be very good."

"I was the only one who wanted this post," Bashir answered coldly. He hoped to appear disinterested. Perhaps the conversation would turn to Dax or Kira. Then he could finish his lunch quickly and find an excuse for going back to the Infirmary.

"He's just being modest," Dax said. "He graduated second in his class. He's a very good doctor."

Grant appeared to have noticed Bashir's aloofness. "I didn't mean to question your qualifications. Please forgive me if I've offended you."

"No offense taken," Bashir answered, but his manner was still cold.

Dax had noticed, too, and she looked at him with something between concern and confusion. "Doctor Grant mentioned to me that he might know your family, Julian."

Bashir shot her an angry look, but only with his eyes. His face remained neutral. He hadn't wanted his first name mentioned. What if Grant remembered? "I doubt it," was all he said.

"Where in England are you from?" Grant asked.

"London," Julian answered, choosing his adopted home instead of his childhood home in Stratford. He'd spent little time in either really.

"Some of my wife's friends were Bashirs," Grant said, "and from that area. Does the name Helen Jones sound familiar?"

_Of course_, Julian thought angrily. "Not that I can remember," he lied, still eating. "London's a big place." Something hurt in him to lie about his mother. But he didn't like where this conversation was going. Grant was too close to the truth. What would he do, Bashir wondered as he stared at his plate, if he found out he was talking to his son? He remembered the furious, wild eyes of the man from the night of the fire, the iron grip of his hands as the man shook him. He felt heavy and tired then. The whole table seemed to be silent for a moment. When he looked up again Dax was watching him. This time he was sure it was concern. Kira looked confused and perhaps slightly amused.

"Are you feeling alright?" Grant asked with his own degree of professional concern.

"I'm fine," Bashir answered. "I guess I'm a little tired." He began to put his plate in order to take it away. This whole conversation had gone on too long already.

"You look a little pale," Grant persisted as Bashir stood. "Perhaps. . ."

"I _am _a doctor," Bashir cut him off. "I can take care of myself. If you will excuse me," he addressed everyone at the table. "I should get back to the Infirmary."

* * *

Dax watched him leave and then tried to apologize for him. "I've never seen him like this, really. I don't know why he is acting this way." Julian was usually over-ingratiating. She'd never known him to be rude to anyone in the two years they'd worked together.

"He seems to be preoccupied," Grant stated. "Perhaps he is simply overstressed. He said that he was tired."

"He seemed fine a few minutes ago," Kira contended.

Dax was frowning, her eyebrows pulled down slightly. "Something's wrong. Maybe I should go talk to him?"

"A good friend can often help a great deal, Lieutenant," Grant replied. "But do finish eating. And before you go, I'd like to invite you both to dinner on the _Ranger_. Please invite the doctor as well."

"Thank you, and I will." Dax's smile had returned. She finished her lunch quickly and drank the last of her tea. "If you'll excuse me." Her companions nodded, and she left the table.

* * *

Dr. Bashir was alone in the Infirmary. He wanted to be alone. His patients, both of them, had been discharged earlier that morning. His nurse was excused for lunch and for lack of anything important to do. He leaned back in his chair and propped one leg up on the other. His fingers were laced together, and his hands rested on his leg. He stared blankly at the words on the viewscreen in front of him. It was a numerical listing of those interred in the New Cemetery in Stratford-upon-Avon, England. He'd seen it many times. He'd first requested the list nearly twenty years before.

Most of the names were irrelevant to him: two centuries of names belonging to those who had desired an old-fashioned burial in the Elizabethan town. Most had been historians like his mother. Hers was the listing he had first high-lighted on the screen.

LK-47 Helena Laura Jones Grant, wife of Dr. Alexander Patrick Grant. Mother of three.

Historian, specializing in Elizabethan England. Died: August 3, 2345 in house fire, age 31 years.

He'd once checked the listing just before hers by accident. That plot had still been empty. "Reserved for Dr. Alexander Grant." It was the one after his mother's that had shocked him when he first learned of it.

After finding Grant's plot, he had been curious to see if the whole family had plots. The computer had answered that there were five plots reserved under the name Grant. Two adults, three children--normal. Only two were occupied. That caught his attention. Who else had died? "Helena Grant, LK-47," the computer had said with no more compassion, of course, than it would recite a recipe, "and Julian Grant, LK-48."

He had been young then, twelve years old. He had been angry with his father, hurt by him. But a part of him had still loved his father. That part could have forgiven the man if he had come back for him. But even that part had frozen within him the day he found his own grave. There was nothing left but hatred.

The reflection of light on the viewscreen changed just enough to grab his attention. "Julian?" _Dax_, he thought, recognizing the voice. He sat up quickly and deactivated the screen before turning around.

* * *

"Julian," Dax repeated. "I was worried when you left the Replimat so quickly." She hoped that her voice was gentle, unthreatening.

"I had some work to do," Bashir answered. "I'm sorry if I appeared rude back there."

Dax glanced around the Infirmary from the door where she stood. It was clean and bright, unlike most other areas on the station. The new equipment with it's sleek diagrams and readouts clashed slightly with the geometric shapes and dark, earthy colors on the Cardassian displays. Everything seemed to be working fine. The Infirmary was empty. He wasn't busy.

There was an empty chair beside him, and she walked over to it. But she didn't sit down. She leaned her arms against its back. "I've never known you to act that way, Julian. Are you alright?" she asked.

"I'm fine," he answered, smiling in an effort to reassure her.

"That's what you keep saying," she said, studying his face. She sighed as she stood up straight again. Julian appeared tired, drained in fact. And sad. _Why sad? _When he didn't answer, she added, "Julian, if you need to talk, about anything, you know you can talk to me."

"You'd be my first choice," he said amiably. "But, really, I'm fine. I'd ask you to have dinner with me this evening, but I know your answer. So I'll just ask if you'd like to dine at the same table with me."

He was being stubborn. "I'd love to," she replied. "In fact we've both been invited to have dinner with Doctor Grant on the _Ranger _this evening. Shall I tell him that we will be there?"

He hesitated. "Who else will be there?" he asked. He appeared to be stalling.

"I'm not quite sure. He invited Kira, you, and me as far as I know. I'm pretty sure he will invite Benjamin, too. They seem to get along very well."

He took a deep breath. _Was it Grant? _Dax asked herself. "Sure," he said pleasantly. "What time should I come?"

"I'll let you know," Dax answered, and she straightened up to leave. "We can go together."

That brightened him up. "Great. I'll see you then."

Dax left the Infirmary more confused then when she'd come in, but she was starting to piece together the puzzle. She replayed the conversation at lunch in her mind, searching for a clue to Bashir's strange behavior as she walked to the turbolift. He had seemed very startled when Grant had joined them. Almost upset. _Why would Dr. Grant upset him? _

But that had to be it. "Ops," she said, and the turbolift began to move. She remembered the tour of the _Ranger_. It was when Grant had passed them in the corridor. Julian had stopped and stared after the man. Then he'd remained silent and glum for the rest of the tour. He hadn't joined them for dinner either.

Kira looked up when she stepped off the turbolift. "What's wrong?" she asked, noticing the furrows in Dax's brow. "Did you find anything out?"

Dax walked over to her so that their conversation would not be heard by everyone in Operations. "He said he was fine. But he's lying. I know he is. He just doesn't act like that. Something has upset him. I think I know what it is. I just don't know why."

"Grant," Kira said, matter-of-factly, not even looking at Dax.

"How did you know?" Dax asked, the amazement apparent in her voice.

"He nearly choked when the man came to the table," she replied, pushing controls and watching displays. "Didn't you notice?"

"Well, yes," Dax responded, sitting down on one of the stools nearby. "I just didn't think you did. Why do you suppose Grant would bother him so much?"

"That I don't know. Grant is a famous doctor and scientist. Maybe he feels threatened professionally."

Dax gave her a sideways look. "You can't believe that."

"No, Bashir's too arrogant to be threatened."

"He's not telling me something." Dax frowned in concern. "He was looking at something on the computer. He turned it off very quickly when I came in."

Kira stopped the work she was doing to look at her friend. "So what will you do, try to find out what he had requested from the computer? I think your old age is making you a bit over-protective. Look, whatever is bothering him, it's his business. He doesn't seem to want to talk about it. If he wants to talk, I'm sure he'll come to you." She went back to watching her displays. "Now what did he say about dinner?"

"He said he'd come," Dax answered, her confusion showing now.

"That _is _surprising. It should be an interesting evening."

The turbolift rose again. Kira and Dax turned together to see O'Brien step down into Ops. "How's it going, Chief?" Kira asked.

"We're finally starting to get ahead of it all," he sighed. "I'm beginning to think--"

"Chief." Benjamin Sisko stood in the door to his office with a frown on his face. "My comm line just got cut off, and the chronometer in my office is running backwards."

"As I was saying," O'Brien continued, this time including the commander, "I'm beginning to think that all this was someone's idea of a bad joke. I've been fixing things since the day I arrived on this station. But this is different. This is just too much.

"And look at what it is," he said, holding up the PADD in his hand. "Lights went off in corridors, sensors were down on the Promenade and other areas, a mooring clamp was released in Upper Pylon Two, the chronometers are off, gravity has been affected in several areas, climate control has gone haywire, turbolifts have been malfunctioning. . . . But it's all rather unimportant stuff."

"Security reported vandalism on the Promenade," Sisko added, "and on the habitat ring. But these malfunctions just don't sound like our usual Bajoran terrorists."

"You're sure the vandalism was Bajoran?" Dax asked.

"Someone had painted 'heretic' in Bajoran on seventeen doors all belonging to non-Bajorans," Kira answered, frowning.

"Well," Sisko said, drawing everyone's attention back to him, "let's be thankful that they're not our usual terrorists. No one's dead. But let's find them just the same. Any ideas, Chief?"

"No, but I wish whoever's behind this was on our side. They know a hell of a lot about engineering. The security sensors were only down for about thirteen minutes last night. They had to have worked fast."

"Major," Sisko turned to Kira, "work with O'Brien. Let's see if we can't find them before they do something more serious. Check with Odo, too. He's working on the vandals. My guess is they're the same people."

* * *

Inara Taleyn waved at the young man standing near the jumja kiosk. On the outside she smiled, while on the inside she scowled sadly. Liian looked much too nervous. _He needs to grow up_, she thought as she walked up to him. He was nearly seventeen, and he still acted like a scared, anxious child when on assignment.

"Did you see it?" Liian asked quietly, trying to keep a straight face.

Inara took his arm, and they began to slowly stroll around the Promenade. "Yes." Inara's tone was slightly scolding. "I saw it. You did fine. But please, try not to look so nervous. You'll have to learn to blend in. They'll be looking for us now."

"I'm sorry, Taleyn." He looked down at his feet, frowning. But then he looked up. The excitement showed again in his voice. "How did you do on the ship?"

She let a smile slip then and squeezed his arm just a little. "Just fine. It was easy." Then she was serious again. "You know they won't just turn around and go home though, don't you? We may have to do more."

"I'll do anything," he said defiantly. "We struggled for sixty years to get rid of the Cardassians. I'll die, if that's what the Prophets ask of me."

"I hope it doesn't come to that." Inara stopped walking and casually took Liian over to a shop window. "Someone's watching us," she whispered. She pointed to one of the items in the window, a latinum earring, very ornate and very expensive. She smiled as she pointed, and Liian caught on and played along.

"Where?" he asked, as he nodded his head and drew her attention to the matching necklace.

"Maybe someday," she said aloud. "There," she pointed now at the silver necklace hanging higher on their left. But in front of the necklace, reflected on the glass, was a human face. Taleyn and Liian lowered their heads again toward the earring. But their eyes remained on the face. He sat at the restaurant behind them. His left hand held a goblet halfway to his mouth, but he didn't drink. He stared in their direction. His companion seemed not to notice.

Both wore blue Starfleet uniforms. Inara could tell that he was from the _Ranger_, as the Federation uniforms worn by the station crew were different: black with only the shoulders bearing the color of their station. The companion was a woman, if judged by her long hair. The Bajorans could not see her face. She seemed to be talking to the man.

The man was young, with dark hair. He nodded from time to time, but still he stared. Inara got the feeling that he was playing the same game as they. But why would he be staring? Had someone seen them that night? Inara knew that no one had seen her as she boarded the _Ranger_.

Inara took Liian's arm again and led him away from the window. She watched the reflection from the corner of her eye as she walked. The man continued to watch. "Were you seen last night?" she asked quietly.

"I don't think so," Liian replied. "There was no one on the Promenade except at the Ferengi's bar. I wasn't even over there. Do you think he knows?"

"I don't know. But," she hesitated, not knowing how to put her feelings into words. She took the chance and looked back over her shoulder. The man was still watching, and he caught her gaze. His glass raised slightly as if in tribute. He smiled and then looked away. Inara turned away and walked forward again.

"But what?" Liian asked as they rounded a corner.

"I--" Inara gasped, then she regained her composure. "I . . . I'm sorry," she stammered at the Cardassian she'd just run into.

The Cardassian smiled a large beguiling, grin. "No need to apologize, Madam." His voice was gracious. Inara recognized him as the tailor, Garak. She also remembered the rumors about his being a spy who'd been left behind by the withdrawing Cardassian force. "I must watch more carefully where I walk," he said. "Please excuse me."

"Of course," Inara answered, still taken aback. Garak bowed slightly to take his leave and then walked away.

* * *

As the turbolift rose, Dax was surprised to see the _Ranger_'s captain step down to the level of Ops. He was a big man, well-muscled and tall. His blond hair was clipped close to his head, but not unattractively. He carried a tricorder with him. Captain Gerin noted Dax's awareness. Everyone else seemed too busy to be bothered. "Is Commander Sisko busy?" he asked. "We got cut off a few minutes ago."

"I'll just tell him that you're here," Dax replied, smiling. Her hand reached out toward the console in front of her. "Benjamin, Captain Gerin is here to see you."

Seconds later, Commander Sisko's doors slid open loudly, and he stepped down from his office. "Captain," he said as he held out his hand to the captain. "I'm sorry that we were interrupted."

"We've been having some trouble with our communications systems," Gerin responded, apologizing himself.

"You, too?" Sisko was truly surprised.

"We've had problems with all of our systems. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

"I see." Sisko turned to Dax. "Lieutenant, will you join us in my office?" He then turned to lead the captain to the commandant's office. Dax followed.

Sisko waited for the doors to close and gestured for Captain Gerin and Dax to sit down. "What kind of problems have you been having?"

"We have a virus. Someone downloaded a virus into our systems last night. We're convinced it was a Bajoran. In cleaning up the virus we triggered this." He held up the tricorder and pressed a button. A recording of a conversation between two officers began to play. There was a lot of background noise which Dax assumed was due to the repair operation.

"Yes, we're going for Klingon on the station. We'll save you a place." The first was a female voice.

The second was male. "Okay, I'll meet y--" He stopped in mid-sentence. Then there were startled voices and grumbling.

The next voice boomed. "Defilers!" It was the familiar voice of all Starfleet computers, but filled with anger. It sounded in stereo from the commline connection. "You shall not defile the Celestial Temple!"

"Shit!" The male voice again. Captain Gerin turned off the recording then.

"That certainly does sound like Bajorans," Sisko said, "and we've had some trouble with some Bajorans lately. Someone has messed with our systems as well, though we've not found evidence of a virus. We did find evidence of vandalism against non-Bajorans."

"And of course," Dax added, "one of your mooring clamps was released last night."

"I know," Gerin replied. "We've found where the virus was introduced. It was in a Jefferies Tube not far from that airlock. And the door's sensors were taken off-line."

"Our systems seem to have been effected randomly," Dax said. "Our security sensors were off-line for a total of thirteen minutes last night."

"Perhaps our vandals orchestrated the malfunctions as a diversion to get aboard your ship and plant the virus," Sisko proffered.

"Why?" Gerin asked. "Don't they realize yet that the Federation is trying to help them?"

"Many of them do," Sisko replied. "But others still have very strong views. We've usually had worse. This time we've only had minor injuries. The fact is, some Bajorans still don't want us or anyone else here."

"What is the 'Celestial Temple'?" Gerin asked. "What is it they don't want us to defile?"

"The Telestial Temple is the Bajoran religious view of the wormhole," Dax responded. "The Bajorans are a very spiritual people. They see the inhabitants of the wormhole as their Prophets. The motive here does sound more religious than territorial, or political."

"They did call the Klingons aliens, and tell them to go home," Sisko half-heartedly argued.

"Yes, but they painted the word 'heretic' several times in the habitat ring, that combined with the recording-- 'defilers'--and the fact that they've not bombed anything or killed anyone, makes me think we're not dealing with the usual 'Bajor for Bajorans'-type of terrorist."

"Then perhaps I should talk with Vedek Bareil," Sisko concluded.

"He might be able to give us information on some radical sects," Dax agreed.

Sisko addressed the captain. "We also know that whoever is doing this is a computer expert. I've got my First Officer and Chief of Operations working with Security to find them. We'll keep you informed."

* * *

Julian Bashir sat alone once again. He laid his head on the desk in front of him and tried not to think. He was tired. The whole situation exhausted him. He wanted to sleep, hoping that when he woke up, Grant would be gone, and his life would go back to normal. But Bashir wasn't very good at not thinking, and his thoughts constantly came back to Dr. Grant.

He had few memories of the man before the night his mother died. He'd been too young. He remembered his mother, it's true. His earliest memory was his second birthday. She had made a chocolate cake with two candles that glowed softly in the dimmed light of the room. And she sang "Happy Birthday" with the sweetest voice. The voice of an angel. Of course, he knew that he may have embellished her a little in his memories. He didn't remember the times she'd been mad at him, only the good things. And she was always perfect, everything about her.

He'd made a conscious effort to remember his mother. But Grant was a blur to him before the fire. Through the years, he'd lost the old face his father had surely had. His early memories now pushed out the image of a smiling happy father, a deep voice that must have sang with his mother's. He now only retained the wild eyes of the screaming man from the fire. And of course, he'd seen pictures of the now famous scientist, Dr. Alexander Grant.

He must have been kind before, Julian thought, because he remembered having loved him. He remembered the lonely nights in the hospital, asking for his parents, waiting for them to come. The doctors had told him that his mother was dead. But he hadn't believed it yet. He had asked for his father then. His father would tell him the truth. He hadn't yet connected the screaming man and Dr. Grant, his father. That, like the acceptance of and grief over his mother's death, came later with counseling and after years of wondering why his father never came.

He ran his fingers through his short brown hair and wondered why he'd said he would go to dinner. Of course, he'd done it to throw Dax off. He wanted to appear normal, and the normal Dr. Julian Bashir would not turn down a dinner invitation with a famous doctor. And he certainly wouldn't turn down a chance to go with a beautiful Chief Science Officer. But he didn't feel normal today.

He sat up when he heard the swish of the door opening. Jake Sisko stood in the doorway, his long fingers clutching his right elbow. He had a pained and worried look on his face. His clothes and dark skin were dirty. Nog, the young Ferengi boy, stood beside him, fidgeting nervously on one foot and then the other. Before Julian could get halfway to the door, Nog pushed Jake into the room. His eyes watched the corridor as the door hissed shut behind them.

"What happened?" Julian asked, leading them over to the nearest biobed.

"I hurt my elbow," Jake said, hopping up a little so he could sit on the bed.

"Yes," Julian replied, "I can see that." He lifted Jake's elbow slightly and frowned when the boy removed his fingers. His sleeve was badly torn, and there was quite a bit of blood. The bleeding seemed to have been slowed by the boy's grip. "_How _did you hurt your elbow?" he asked as he cut away the boy's sleeve. Jake's own mouth turned downwards as he watched. He appeared more worried about the sleeve than his arm.

"Can't you just fix it?" Nog asked before Jake had a chance to answer. He was hovering at Bashir's side, peering curiously at Jake's wound.

"I can 'fix' it better," Julian replied in his stern voice, "if I know how it got hurt. Now go stand over there." He pointed to the wall next to the door. "And don't touch anything!" he added.

He turned back to Jake as he opened his tricorder. "Jake?"

"You won't tell my dad, will you?" Bashir looked up. Jake's eyes pleaded with him.

"Jake?" Bashir repeated.

"Don't answer him," Nog said, walking back over to the biobed.

Julian shot his arm out, pointing to the wall. The Ferengi returned to his spot near the door. "Jake?"

"I . . . I fell," Jake stammered.

"And you don't want me to tell your father that you fell?" Julian was gathering a few instruments from the cabinet next to the bed. "Your father must be very strict," he said sarcastically.

"Alright," Jake sighed. He paused as Bashir placed a hypospray to his shoulder. "But please don't tell."

Nog groaned and stomped his feet. "Humon," he murmured contemptuously.

"We were on one of the lower levels," Jake explained slowly, as Bashir began to mend the cut on his elbow. "I tripped on some junk down there and fell down."

"And what were the two of you doing down there?" Commander Sisko's stern voice asked from the doorway. Nog had heard the door open and tried to steal out the door quietly behind the commander. But Sisko caught him by the arm and pulled him back inside the Infirmary.

Jake rolled his eyes and sighed. Dr. Bashir could sense a hint of panic in his manner and a little bit of anger in the look he gave the doctor. "How did you know I was here?" Jake asked his father.

"Doctor Bashir was kind enough to call," Sisko answered.

"But he didn't!" Nog cried, squirming under Sisko's grip.

"I always inform a parent when his child comes to the Infirmary," Bashir told the boy, smiling slightly. "There," he said to Jake as he set down the dermal regenerator. "Be easy on that arm for a couple of days, and stay out of restricted areas. They're often dangerous; that's why they're restricted."

"But you didn't call!" Nog was still protesting.

"I did," Bashir replied, "just not verbally."

The door swished open again, and Quark walked in, apologizing already for whatever his nephew had done. "That brother of mine," he was saying, "he just doesn't know how to properly raise a child. He's not all that smart, you know. Obviously, the boy takes after his father." He grabbed the boy strongly by his earlobe and began to drag him, squealing, out the door.

"Not yet, Quark," Sisko halted him calmly.

Nog was fuming. "You called him, too?" he asked incredulously, pointing his thumb over his shoulder at the older Ferengi.

"No," Bashir answered calmly, "I called your father." And then he repeated his previous statement. "I inform a parent when his child comes to the Infirmary."

"But I'm not the patient," Nog whined.

The door opened again allowing Odo to enter. The tall Chief of Security appeared slightly amused as he stood in the doorway, blocking any escape Nog might have tried to make. "But I'm sure you're related somehow to the injury," he said.

"And him?" Nog asked the doctor again. "When did you find the time?"

"No," Bashir replied. "I didn't call him."

"I did," Commander Sisko broke in. "Now, tell me what you were doing down on the lower levels."

The whole situation was rather humorous, Julian thought. But he did pity Jake. He seemed to be a good kid altogether, but he was always getting himself into trouble one way or another. Jake had slipped down from the biobed, not saying a word. He stared at the floor, and his shoulders sagged heavily.

"We were just looking," the boy began, not looking up. Nog shot him an angry look, despite the pain from his ear.

"Looking at what?" Sisko asked.

"Looking _for _what?" Odo cut in, directing his question at Nog. But Nog said nothing; he was trying hard to look defiant.

"Nothing, really." Jake's voice was quiet and small. He was trying not to say too much. His eyes remained glued to the floor.

"Jake?" Sisko asked, his voice a little deeper, and a little more threatening.

Julian turned away. Entertaining as the scene was, it really wasn't his business. Although, he wouldn't have been surprised if Quark had sent Nog down to the lower levels. Those areas were so highly damaged when the Cardassians left the station that they were, as yet, irreparable. However, they did provide spare parts at times, for other broken or damaged items on the more necessary levels of the station. If they weren't strictly restricted, scavengers, like Nog, would have scoured them long ago, finding everything at all that was possibly useful, and selling it to the highest bidder. He supposed that that was exactly what Nog and Jake were doing down there.

Instead of following the saga, Bashir turned to his "paperwork." He let the constable and the commander sort out the situation with the boys and sat down at the computer to record Jake's injury and the treatment received. Behind him the door opened again. Everyone turned to see a very surprised nurse enter the Infirmary. No one said anything by way of explanation, but Odo did step out of the way so she could get past. She immediately went to Dr. Bashir at the computer. The conversation continued behind her.

"What's going on?" she asked in a whisper.

"It's a long story, I gather," he whispered back, as he proceeded with his records. "I'm sure it'll all be sorted out in a few moments."

"Medical emergency on the Promenade!" All conversation stopped. The voice was squeaky, almost a verbal cringe.

_Ferengi_, Julian recognized. It had to be Rom, Quark's brother and Nog's father. Bashir was already getting his medkit when he answered. "Doctor Bashir here. Where are you, Rom?"

"Quark's. Come quick."

"I'm on my way," Bashir answered. He turned to the nurse. "Keep an eye on things here. The boy's been released."

"Which boy?" she asked, confused. But Julian was already out the door. And Quark was right behind him, with Odo following, too.

The Infirmary was on the Promenade, so getting to the bar took little time. Several onlookers were staring inside from the corridor, their mouths gaped open in curiosity. Security officers were already pushing their way inside. Rom was waiting at the door, cowering as if he had done something wrong. But Rom always cowered that way. He was wringing his hands incessantly and fidgeting from one foot to the other, just as his son had done.

"What happened?" Julian asked as he entered the semi-crowded, yet eerily quiet bar. Security officers began taking statements and trying to keep people calm.

Rom's voice was about an octave higher than usual. "He just stabbed him and ran off!" he blurted out in a panic, as he led the doctor to the victim.

The man on the floor was another Ferengi, one of Quark's waiters. But he wasn't exactly stabbed. His throat had been slit from one over-sized ear to the other. He lay still, covered in blood, his eyes fixed in an expression of helplessness and horror. Julian took his tricorder out and passed it over the inert body. It was obvious to him, and to everyone else, that the man was dead, but he had to make it official. He checked the chronometer on the tricorder: 1437. He turned to Odo. "He's dead."

Odo had been standing behind Quark, his eyes moving over the whole bar, scanning every face. Now he pushed past Quark to question Rom and other key witnesses. But it was Quark who drew the doctor's attention.

He was staring, transfixed, at the body on the floor. To the doctor, he had seemed to be not only horrified at the violent death of his employee, but worried as well. But not like Rom, who cringed and fidgeted when worried. Rom was usually too stupid to be guilty of much, so he had little need for the kind of worry that showed in Quark's face. Quark was more clever and hardly ever let his confident air down. But once he was aware of the doctor's eye on him, his visage changed and he turned away.

"What exactly did you see?" Odo was asking Rom, who still quivered nervously beside the body. Odo was calm, as usual, but he seemed energized by the call to duty the murder provided. Julian thought that he and Odo had something in common, though Odo would probably never admit to being in any way like him. But they were both doing what they were supposed to do. Julian felt that he, himself, was meant to be a doctor. It was not a career he chose so much as it was a part of him. Odo was meant to be in Security in just the same way. Justice was a part of Odo as much as medicine was a part of Julian Bashir.

Rom stammered, "He . . .he was complaining about the food. Lek tried to calm him. He offered a free meal in repayment," he said. Then his tone changed briefly as he added, "Though of course only my brother can offer such recompense." And then he went back to the story. "But he wouldn't have it. He went crazy. He grabbed Lek from behind and stabbed him with the knife. It was horrible! Just horrible!"

Odo listened to Rom's much too brief statement and then pressed Rom for more information. "What did _he _look like?"

"I don't know," Rom answered, looking genuinely perplexed.

"What was he wearing?"

"A hood." Rom seemed more confident then. "Yes, he was wearing a gray hood like those Gidari."

Odo touched the communication badge on his breast. "Odo to Sisko."

"Sisko here."

"There's been a murder."

"I'm on my way."

In moments, Commander Sisko entered the bar and was directed by a Bajoran security officer to where Odo and the doctor were waiting. Major Kira arrived a few moments later.

Sisko looked gravely down at the waiter's body. He nodded, and Bashir lifted the tablecloth that had been thrown over his face. Sisko's jaw tightened visibly, and the doctor replaced the cover. Two med-techs were waiting nearby with an antigravity stretcher. Bashir nodded to them, and they began to remove the body. Few words were said by anyone until the body was loaded up and moving toward the door.

"Cause of death is rather obvious," Sisko said, his voice low. "Do we have the murder weapon?"

"No," Odo answered. "The perpetrator seems to have run off with it."

"Could he have left the station?"

"No." This time it was Kira. "No ships have left since 1200 hours. None are due to depart for four more hours."

"Good," Sisko said. "No one leaves unless we're sure he is not on board. I want a report as soon as you can get one together. Let's see what the postmortem can tell us." The first order was directed to Kira, the second to Odo, and the third to the doctor.

"Dax to Odo."

Odo tapped his comm badge. "Odo here."

"Sanglin Nardek of the _Gindarin _has just called to report one of his crew missing: a young man named Harglin Nastrof."

"My office at 1600 hours," Sisko concluded. His officers nodded their acknowledgment.

Sisko walked out of the bar. Bashir picked up the medkit from the floor. As he rose again, he turned to Odo. "I'll inform you immediately if I find anything of importance." And then he hurried after his med-techs, secretly hoping that all of this would keep him much to busy to go to dinner with Dax and Dr. Grant.


	3. Chapter Three

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Three**

The security officer lifted one eyebrow and tried to keep an even expression. This was only the sixth person she'd interviewed to have overestimated his importance as a witness. Few people had actually been paying attention to the table where the murderer had sat. And he had not been seated in the front room where most of the other customers were.

"He was a big man," a Bajoran man said excitedly, "probably two and a half meters tall!"

"Where were you during the attack?"

"I was in Holosuite Three."

The security officer smiled politely before moving on.

A few others were having better luck. "I was sitting at a table near the bar," a young Vulcan woman said calmly. She wore the blue-breasted uniform of a Starfleet science or medical officer. The three small circular pins on her collar identified her as a lieutenant commander.

"And did you see what happened, sir?" This security officer was human, and she wore the mostly black uniform of Starfleet officers on DS9.

"Only after the Ferengi," she pointed to Rom, "began screaming. I saw someone run out of the bar. The individual came within close proximity to where I sat."

"What did that man look like?" the officer asked, carefully noting what was said on the padd she carried.

"I cannot be certain that it was a man. The person was wearing a gray, hooded cloak, as the Gidari do. This is perplexing, as the Gidari would seldom eat in such a public setting. He or she had a knife. There was blood, I can assume by the red color, on the left sleeve of the cloak. The individual was wearing black boots. This was also unusual."

"How so?"

"Gidari boots are most often dark gray in color, and they are made of treated animal skin. They would not have reflected the light. And the Gidari wear soft-soled boots, there would have been little sound as he or she ran out of the establishment."

Most of the witnesses believed they had seen a man. All of them agreed about the cloak that concealed the face of the individual along with two-thirds of his body. One had seen red patch on the right shoulder of the cloak. Others reported seeing the hooded man turn left as he ran out of the bar.

* * *

The autopsy took less time than usual. That is, after the family had been calmed. They had been revolted at the idea of an autopsy. Only after Bashir had promised that he didn't need to cut the body in any way, only to scan and examine it, did they acquiesce. Still, they had insisted that one member of the family be present, so a cousin was chosen. He had fainted at the sight of the wound, and had to be revived. Throughout the rest of the autopsy, he had remained seated at the far side of the room. He still looked pale.

The cause of the Ferengi's death was quite evident, though Bashir scanned for other possible causes as well. He doubted that this really was the case of an irate customer. Quark's face had piqued his suspicions. It was not too unlikely that Quark was involved in something illegal, nor was it improbable that he'd have his waiters helping him in some way.

Anytime illegality and Quark were combined, one could not always rely on the obvious clues. So Bashir had run an extra scan, looking for drugs or other foreign substances that might have contributed to the waiter's demise. But the scan turned up negative. Lek had died just as it appeared he had.

Hoping for some clue to the identity of the hooded murderer, he scraped under the Ferengi's long fingernails and had his clothes examined for anything which might contain the murderer's DNA. Of course, with the hood, the murderer would not likely have lost hair that would have fallen on his victim, but Bashir didn't want to overlook anything.

There was little to record in the official log. The subject was Ferengi, twenty-three years old, and in good health up to the point of death. Cause of death was loss of blood. There was little to help the investigation either. There seemed to have been no struggle.

There was one clue, however, also evident from the wound. The knife had first penetrated the skin just under the jaw on the right side of the victim's neck. It had continued to slice across the neck, nearly to the back. This suggested that the perpetrator had been standing behind the victim, as Rom had said, and that he held the knife in his left hand. He was therefore most likely left-handed.

One could also determine that the murderer was taller than the victim, but this hardly constituted a clue. Ferengi were short people, compared to most of the other species that came to the station, including the Gidari and the Bajorans.

Bashir had noticed in the morning the long red letters painted across his door. It was quite noticeable against the dark gray of the corridor walls. It was possible that the Bajorans who had vandalized the station could have murdered an "alien." But their was little evidence either way. Bashir hoped Odo was having more luck with his investigation.

Odo's office was dark compared to the bright lights of the Infirmary, but the soft lighting and neutral colors of the security office had a calming effect, Bashir thought. Odo was sitting behind his desk, poring over a padd which, Julian assumed, held reports on the murder investigation. He looked up when Julian entered. "Doctor," he said in acknowledgment.

"I've got the autopsy report," Bashir said, handing Odo another padd. "I'm afraid there's little to help you. I do think we can assume the murderer is left-handed. The cut was made from behind, right to left. I hope you've had better luck." The last sentence was more than professional courtesy. He hoped the constable would fill him in on any clues.

"I'm still examining the statements," Odo answered, showing little interest in Bashir's curiosity. "There were many witnesses. Though, of course, no one saw very much," he added with cynicism.

There was an awkward silence. Actually Julian always felt a little awkward with Odo. He often found it hard to discern the shapeshifter's emotions. His face showed little change from moment to moment and always retained an undone aspect that obscured most expressions. But Odo appeared, if one could say that, annoyed. "Well," Julian said, "if I can be of any more help, please let me know."

"Thank you, Doctor," Odo replied, then he returned his gaze to the padd in front of him, setting Julian's aside for later viewing. The doors hissed open rather loudly, and Julian turned to leave. Then he stopped and turned back. "I just remembered," he said as Odo looked up again. "Quark seemed rather affected by the murder. I wonder if he isn't involved in some way."

"I always wonder if Quark isn't involved in some way with every crime that happens on this station."

Julian nodded, satisfied that the matter would be looked into. Where Quark was concerned, Odo was always thorough. He turned and stepped back out into the only slightly subdued atmosphere of the Promenade. People didn't lock themselves in their quarters for long. There had been murders on the station before, and it seemed, right or wrong, that the people were in many ways used to the situation. It was just another part of life as usual on this station.

* * *

"Some people view the Federation as godless and, therefore, a threat," Vedek Bareil said calmly. Behind him, Sisko could see earth-colored walls and shades of green from the window. The bright daylight sun was shining its rays into the room. "They see your exploration and research as a corruption of that which is holy or sacred."

"So sending a science vessel through the wormhole would defile the Celestial Temple," Sisko concluded. He leaned back in his chair and crossed one arm over his chest. The other arm brought his hand up to his chin.

"Some would see it that way. It _is _the home of the Prophets."

"But why then attack the station?" Sisko wondered aloud.

"Because you represent the Federation and promote trade through the Celestial Temple. And, you see," Bareil explained, "if the Federation is influencing Bajor, than the Federation is leading the people off toward godlessness."

"And do you think these people might try to harm anyone or destroy the station or the _Ranger_?"

"It's hard to tell. I'm considered conservative by such people. I doubt they would tell me much. But people who believe in something strong enough are often willing to die for it--or, unfortunately to kill for it."

Sisko frowned. That's not the answer he wanted to hear, but it was the answer he'd expected. "Thank you, Vedek." In his mind Sisko asked if they had already harmed someone. He thought of the Ferengi waiter lying under a bloody table cloth. And, he thought, if that were true, that the Bajorans were behind the murder, where was the Gidari, Harglin Nastrof? Was he a victim, too?

"If I can be of any further help," Bareil smiled, "please, don't hesitate to call." The screen went blank, and Sisko reached forward to turn it off.

* * *

Dr. Alexander Grant leaned back against the arm of the sofa and stretched out his legs until he was quite comfortable. "Dim," he said quietly, and the lights obediently dimmed. _Better_, he thought as he yawned. It was still early, late afternoon in fact, but he felt as if he'd been up all night and then some. He'd worked hard all day to remove the virus from the science computers. He had no duties left to attend to, no tests to run for the rest of the day. In fact, he had no obligations at all until dinner that evening. Even the lights were working properly, and his quarters were peaceful and quiet.

Too quiet. When it was quiet he would think, and he didn't want to think. He needed work or people, something to keep him occupied. Reclining comfortably, quietly now he thought of his grandchildren and how far away they were. He thought of George and Elaine, busy raising a family. And he thought of Elizabeth in Cambridge, following in her mother's footsteps. And then he thought of Julian.

He tried to push the thought away, but it refused to leave. So he let it come. He could only think of Julian as a little boy. He never grew up. Grant sometimes imagined the boy in his other memories, ones where George and Elizabeth were grown.

But other times he forced himself to think what the boy must be like now. Was he tall? Handsome? Was he married somewhere? Was he kind or easily angered? It was hard to think of him. In a blind obsession Grant had purchased an empty coffin and a headstone for the plot next to Helen. Part of Grant's mind believed that the boy was dead, just as he had told everyone else. The other part of him knew more of the truth.

He'd deserted the boy, left him fearful and alone in an impersonal hospital, shipped him off to school, and then refused any other word of him. Even George, who had been old enough to remember his brother, had feared to mention the boy's name in his father's presence. In time, it seemed, the boy had ceased to exist. Except that he still prowled around in memories.

Grant wondered where his son was now. Of course, there were ways to find out. Though he'd often been fearful of actually looking, there were records. In fact, he did know that the boy had been adopted. He remembered with remorse and shame how he'd authorized it. His obsession with Helen's death had subsided some even then, but he could not bring himself to admit what he had done. How could he tell George that his brother was still alive? Elizabeth didn't even remember having another brother. And what about the rest of the family? So he had authorized the adoption, officially signing his son away.

Then he had tried for years to justify it. No one knew that Julian Grant was still alive, and now he'd have a new name. He'd have a new family, and he'd have forgotten about the one he'd lost. It would all just fade away. But for Grant, it didn't fade away. Day after day, it demanded his attention. The shame, the regret ate away at him inside.

He gazed at his feet at the end of the couch and thought for a moment about the hypospray in the drawer by his bed. He was tempted to go and get it, to let the black sleep cover him, drowning out the thoughts and memories and sorrows. But guests were coming for dinner; there was no time for sleeping.

* * *

O'Brien crouched in the access crawlway and stared at the panel in front of him. This was it. Everything looked much as it should. A few wires were crossed, couplings misplaced. And there was one blue coupling that just didn't belong. It had been added in, attached to the power conduit by a small gray box. O'Brien scanned it carefully just to be sure. He'd had enough of terrorist bombings. But it only registered as a bunch of circuits. Nothing that would blow up in his face if he tried to remove it. So he did.

He touched the comm badge on his chest and waited for the familiar chirp. It came quickly. Hopefully, that meant that communications was back up to specs. "O'Brien to Sisko," he said.

"Sisko here."

"I think I've got something here. Someone tapped into our systems all right."

"Good work, Chief. Any damage?"

"Nothing I can't fix," O'Brien answered confidently.

"Fine. There's a meeting in my office in fifteen minutes. Why don't you join it?"

"Yes, sir. O'Brien out." The coupling had come out quite easily, and the rest of the damage was minimal. But it had obviously served its purpose well. It had kept twenty-seven technicians busy for the last thirteen hours. And that was just on the station. O'Brien suspected that he was looking at the work of the author of the _Ranger_'s virus. "Why can't I have engineers like this working for me instead of against me?" he asked himself.

* * *

At 1600 hours Kira Nerys, Odo, and Dr. Bashir were waiting in the commander's office. Chief O'Brien entered immediately after. Commander Sisko had yet to arrive. No one said anything, and no one sat down. Even in more relaxed circumstances Kira said little to the doctor and preferred that he said little to her. She got along well with the Odo though. But there was a murder investigation on. No one was relaxed. It was time for business.

They were left standing there only a few minutes before Sisko entered. He said nothing by way of an explanation for his absence. "Glad you could join us, Chief. Things have gotten a little more serious. There's been a murder."

"Murder?" O'Brien was startled. "Do you think it was our virus people?"

Sisko didn't answer. He raised his eyebrows, leaned back and laced his fingers together. He looked to his other officers for the answer. "What have you got?" he asked. He turned to Bashir first. "I take it there isn't much to report on your end?"

"No, sir," Bashir replied. "As you said, we know the cause of death. I was able to determine from the direction of the wound that the murderer was taller than the victim and--"

"Who isn't?" Kira asked with a smirk, cutting him off.

"Other Ferengi," Sisko answered her without skipping a beat.

"And," Julian continued, ignoring the interruption, "he is most likely left-handed. As the major said, the first clue doesn't help much, but the second might."

Sisko nodded. He leaned foward and rested his elbows on the desk. "Constable?"

"No one seems to have seen the murder, except for Rom. Many people did see the murderer run out of the bar though. He was wearing a hooded gray cloak and black hard-soled boots."

"Can we assume that our man's a Gidari and not a Bajoran?"

"Some of the clues don't match up, but we know very little about the Gidari."

"The Gidari are very secretive," Bashir confirmed. He really doubted the Gidari would commit such a public murder. "And they're very concerned with their honor."

"But we can't rule them out." Kira argued. "A hooded cloak can be quite concealing, but five Gidari were seen entering the bar last night. Only four of them were seen to leave some two hours after Quark had closed the place. There's one missing. Is he missing because he's afraid of being found?"

"The Gidari think something's happened to him," Sisko said in response. "They're quite concerned. They suspect the Ferengi."

"Apparently they did have some business dealings last night," Odo said. "It didn't go well."

"Business," Sisko repeated with more than a hint of cynicism. They all knew Quark well enough to assume that any such "business" was not wholly of a legal or even ethical nature. "See if you can't find out what they were up to. And let's find Mr. Nastrof. What about the Bajorans, Constable?"

Odo's expression barely changed. "There are approximately fifty-six Bajorans who are former members of resistance groups currently on this station. All but four are known to be radically religious. And thirteen are known to be computer or engineering experts. That doesn't cover those who don't have criminal records or those that know how to paint in Bajoran."

"Basically, we've got a long way to go," Kira added.

"We might have just gotten a little closer," O'Brien broke in happily. He held up the coupling with the little gray box. "Our Bajorans used this to tap into our systems. With an external terminal attached to this, they could have given us that virus."

"We should scan it for DNA traces," Bashir suggested.

"Yes," Sisko agreed, "and contact the _Ranger_'s Security. They're in this as much as we are. Let's stop this before it gets any farther."

* * *

Ensign Tsingras scowled unhappily as he walked down the gloomy corridor in the gloomy station. He was beginning to think seriously about resigning from Starfleet. Things hadn't turned out the way he had thought. He had wanted adventure, but also the easy life he was used to. That easy life might have been possible aboard a nice, new starship or science vessel, but not this decrepit, dismal excuse for a space station.

He'd taken a psychology course in the Academy, and he knew that the colors had something to do with it. Brighter pastels have a calming effect, while dark colors, like the Cardassians used when constructing this station, bring you down. But--and this was the clincher--though the station was occasionally attacked by outsiders or threatened by terrorists or murderers on the inside, Ensign Tsingras was not having any adventures. He wasn't in the least bit excited about his assignment. In fact, he hated it.

And today's stroll down the corridor in the habitat ring was a prime example of why. People had complained that there was a bad smell, and it was Tsingras's job to find the cause. No, he couldn't be helping with the murder investigation, or finding out who tampered with the computer systems the night before. That would be just too exciting. He had to clean out whatever stunk in the ventilation ducts on the habitat ring. That's not exactly what they told him he would be doing when he signed up for Starfleet. And it's not what Tsingras had worked so hard for.

Tsingras yanked the cover off the access crawlway, pushed his bag and tricorder inside, and then crawled in himself. _If there's something really gross in here_, he thought, _I'm quitting tomorrow_.

* * *

The DNA scan didn't help as much as Kira would have liked. Any terrorist attacks by Bajorans really troubled her. While she was fervently dedicated to stopping them, she was torn. She used to be one of them. She used to fight along side them for the same objectives. To free Bajor from the oppression of outsiders, for example. She understood their desire, their burning devotion to that cause.

But now she didn't agree with it. She had fought against the Cardassians, and the Cardassians were gone. Given, she didn't always agree with the provisional government on Bajor, and she didn't always trust the Federation's policies and decisions. But their intent was a good one. Both the Federation and, for the most part, the provisional government wanted Bajor to succeed and be a functioning member of the rest of the galaxy. Kira shared that desire, even if she didn't always agree with the way people tried to carry it out.

Bajoran terrorists jeopardized that goal. They shamed and hurt her people and damaged their prospects for the future. That, more than anything, drove Kira to stop them. She'd seen Bajorans injured by bombs set by other Bajorans. And she'd seen the loathing of other people when they came to the station. Terrorists, and even simple vandals, only reinforced the stereotype that others were developing about Bajor. And who would want relations with a planet full of terrorists?

There were DNA traces on the coupling, but not belonging to anyone known to be on the station. Whoever had used the coupling had been careful to not leave clues behind. When the data was run through the computer, the name Bahtran Efin came out. Bahtran was a businessman on the planet. He had a small shop in the capital. He sold computers and computer equipment. And he wasn't there when Kira called.

She was having even less luck finding the Gidari. He was last seen by his comrades in Quark's bar late at night. He was seen leaving alone by an anonymous witness. He had walked toward the docking ring. No one had seen him since. Except that everyone thought they saw him at the bar this afternoon slitting a waiter's throat. Frankly, Kira didn't trust the Gidari, but she was beginning to wonder if Bashir was right.

Would a Gidari really have risked being seen in public to kill a Ferengi? And would someone so concerned with honor run away like a criminal? But there were always people who didn't fit the mold. So she didn't delete his name from the list of suspects. Odo was working on Quark to see if he was involved. Hopefully he would uncover a motive for the killing.

* * *

"What's with all the Security at the airlock?" Maylon asked Pynar as he entered Sickbay. He leaned over her desk.

Pynar looked up at him in surprise. "You don't know?" she asked. "Where have you been?"

Maylon wrinkled his brow in confusion. "On the station. Why? What's going on?"

"Well, first there's the virus," Pynar responded, in a tone that said he should already know.

"Well, I know about that," he retorted. His eyes lowered then, and Pynar suspected that he regretted his cynical tone.

"They just want to be careful who they let on the ship," Pynar said calmly. "And then there's the murder."

Maylon pulled over another chair and sat down on it backwards, leaning his elbows on its back. "Murder?" he asked.

"Yes." Pynar sensed Maylon's interest and laid her padd on the desk. She turned her full attention toward her co-worker. "I'm surprised you don't know about it. News usually carries fast on stations like that."

"Well, I . . . ," Maylon stammered back, "I did notice more security personnel."

"Someone slit a Ferengi's throat just after lunchtime. Right in the bar."

"In front of all the customers?!" Maylon asked.

Maylon's face showed his disbelief and surprise, but Pynar thought she could see a glint in his eyes. Perhaps he was too interested. "Yes, there were customers in the bar. The murderer was wearing a hooded cloak though, so no one saw who it was."

"The Gidari wear hoods," Maylon offered. "Perhaps they didn't like the service."

"I really don't know any of the details, but the captain wants to keep unauthorized personnel from getting on board the ship."

"A lot of good it would do," Maylon said, standing up again. There was a hard edge to his voice. "Someone could just beam on, or what if they're still here? Besides if a Gidari is the murderer, he wouldn't come onto the ship."

"If it was a Gidari, he wouldn't have been in a public bar at lunchtime either," Pynar retorted. "I don't give the orders, and I'm not Security. There's no reason to argue with me about it. Now, you may have the rest of the afternoon off, but I've got work to do. I'll see you tomorrow morning." She didn't give him time to answer. She just picked up the padd she'd been working with and pretended to be working as Maylon left.

Pynar made a point of trying to get along well with Maylon. It wasn't always easy. She didn't really like his personality. He flirted with all of the female crewmembers and was sometimes quick-tempered. But as Chief Medical Officer, she knew she had to work with him, and she hoped he would be a better doctor in the end.

* * *

"You have no right to hold me here." Quark didn't even bother with trying to sound indignant. He knew he was right, and he knew Odo knew he was right. That was the beauty of the thing.

"You're not being held," Odo responded evenly. "You're being questioned." Odo's face showed no emotion, not even a clue. His eyes remained fixed on Quark's.

"Well, then don't I even get to sit down?"

"No."

Quark swallowed his anger. "Why question me?" he returned. "I wasn't even there when it happened. I was in the Infirmary."

"You were there just before the murder," Odo answered. "And it _is _your bar. Now, why do you feel that a Gidari committed the murder?"

"Because my brother said so." This time he forced the indignance into his tone. "And he was dressed like one. They _are _aggressive people."

"They are also very obsessive about privacy. Why would a Gidari be eating lunch in your bar?"

"I don't know!" Quark had a hard time keeping his voice low. "Maybe he was hungry and wanted to meet people."

"Maybe he was in your bar to talk business." Odo's voice was still calm and even.

"Why would they want to do business if their so xenophobic?" Quark eyed the chair beside him longingly. He knew that forcing him to stand was Odo's way of trying to intimidate him. But he also knew that Odo could keep him standing here for quite awhile.

"They're not xenophobic. They're ardent capitalists, much like the Ferengi." Odo's gaze seemed to reveal just a hint of an I-know-what-you're-up-to-so-you-might-as-well- confess look. "They were seen in your bar last night."

Quark thought about his response for just a moment, but there was no outward sign of a stall before he answered. "Oh that!" He chuckled lightly. "They were interested in buying a share of the bar. But, of course, I wasn't interested in their offer. You know how attached I am to the place."

"I know you'd sell your brother if you were offered enough gold-pressed latinum," Odo said sarcastically.

"Of course." Quark smiled inwardly. Odo was beginning to show signs of frustration. And frustrating Odo was almost as much fun as cheating people out of their money.

"The Gidari were angry after your negotiations. Were you angry as well?" But Odo didn't give him time to answer the question. "One of the Gidari is missing. Perhaps you know something about that."

"Maybe he's missing because he's a murderer, and he's afraid he'll get caught." Quark's tone was curt.

"He'd have better luck on his own ship. We can't even scan it for life-signs. Personally, I don't think our murderer was a Gidari. But I do think that you know something about it, anyway."

"Well, if it wasn't the Gidari, then who was it?" Quark's question was a genuine one. Lek was a young man, likable. No one would want to kill him. But the Gidari, they had reason. They had been angry when they left. But Odo was usually right about this sort of thing. Quark was relieved then. If it wasn't the Gidari, they wouldn't be after him next.

"Someone who wanted it to look like the Gidari did it," Odo answered.

"What?!" Quark was shocked. Odo had that look in his eyes again. "Me?!" Odo said nothing. "You don't seriously think that I would murder my own waiter! I wasn't even there!"

"Not you personally." There was still a hint of suggestion to his manner. He sat behind his large desk, leaning slightly forward, but comfortable. The fingers of his hands were laced in front of him on the desk. He did not appear frustrated anymore.

"What profit would there be in having my own waiter murdered in my bar in the afternoon?" Quark asked, deciding that he would reason with Odo. "I'll probably lose business now as it is."

"You overestimate your customers. They won't stop coming simply because of a murder."

"You said yourself that I'd sell my brother. Well that's true. I might sell my waiters, too, but I certainly wouldn't kill them." Then he saw a new direction to take this conversation in. "What if it _was _the Gidari? They might be after me next. Instead of questioning me, you should be trying to protect me."

"Why would the Gidari wish to kill you?" It turned out to be the wrong direction.

"We were discussing business," Quark admitted, but added, "as I told you. But we couldn't come to any agreement, and they left angry, as you pointed out."

"They didn't leave until several hours after closing time. Why were they there so late?"

"We were negotiating!" Quark said, as if implying that it was a stupid question. "Sometimes that takes awhile."

"Most people then reschedule for another day. Why didn't you?"

"Because they wouldn't want to come back. There's too many people for them."

Odo seemed to have sensed that he was getting to Quark. His questions came faster now. "Why did they come in the first place?"

"To do business," Quark answered tersely. He was tiring of this whole conversation. And his legs were getting tired, too. Quark looked at the chair beside him and decided to sit down, whether or not Odo allowed him to.

Odo said nothing about the chair. "What kind of business?"

"I told you," Quark replied, "they were interested in buying the bar."

"But you wouldn't sell?"

"No."

"Then why would the negotiations take so long?" Quark opened his mouth to answer, but Odo spoke first. "The Gidari wouldn't want your bar. Too many people." His tone mocked the Ferengi. "Besides you told me before that they wanted to buy a share of the bar."

Quark tried to dismiss the discrepancy in his story. "Same thing," he said, waving his hand.

"Hardly." Odo wasn't accepting it. "Why would the Gidari come all this way for a small share in your bar? Why are they here?"

"Looking for business. They are ardent capitalists," Quark argued, mocking the shapeshifter.

"And what kind of business did they find at your bar last night?" Odo pressed.

"None," Quark answered. He would only admit what Odo already knew, nothing more. "That's why they were angry."

"That still wouldn't take hours of negotiations." Odo waited for a better answer.

Then Quark got an idea. If the Ferengi had a bad reputation, the Gidari did, too. "They had something they wanted to sell." He would tell the truth, at least part of it. So what if it didn't really relate to the Gidari.

Odo leaned back just a little. It was hardly noticeable, but Quark watched Odo a lot. He knew the subtle changes in the shapeshifter's appearance or position. Odo had bought it. "What did they want to sell?"

"They had managed to acquire some ancient Andorian pottery, very exquisite, perfectly preserved. It was worth a fortune."

Odo's hands relaxed slightly. "And they left angry, because you weren't buying?"

"Yes." Quark's manner was confident now.

"Why not?" Odo was still suspicious.

"Because it was stolen goods." There it was. It was beautiful in it's simplicity. Quark, the upstanding citizen, the pillar of society. "I was interested, of course. I could have sold the pottery for three times the price. But I was worried that it wasn't honest. You can't trust people in hoods, you know. That's why it took so long. They don't just come out and say, 'We stole this, and we want you to buy it.'"

"Why didn't you say so earlier?"

"When I said I wasn't interested, they were afraid I'd come to you. They practically threatened me. And then when they killed--or when I thought they killed--Lek. . . ." He let the sentence trail off.

"They still might," Odo said, leaning all the way back in his chair. "I'll assign some Security to watch you."

The leaning thing confused Quark. It was too far. If Odo leaned back just a little, it showed that he had gotten what he wanted, or thought he did at any rate. But to lean all the way back in his chair. . . . "I don't think that will be necessary. You said it wasn't the Gidari." No matter what Odo thought, Quark did not want Security tailing him everywhere he went. He liked his privacy almost as much as the Gidari did.

"As you wish," Odo answered, much too nicely. "You may go." The doors behind Quark opened loudly, letting the sounds from the Promenade into the security office.

Quark looked at the open doors and then Odo again. "You're letting me go?" he asked suspiciously. It was too easy.

"I have no right to hold you," Odo answered with Quark's own words. "I'm finished questioning you." Quark rose from the chair and walked uncertainly toward the doors. "For now," Odo added.

* * *

Julian Bashir paced nervously around his quarters. Doubts again crept into his mind. Maybe he could still get out of it. But not showing up for dinner would only make Dax worry more. Besides she was coming round for him at a quarter past seven. He only had a few minutes. The thought then crossed his mind that perhaps he should tell her about Grant and himself when she came. But he quickly pushed the thought away.

He had kept the truth about his father secret for many years. He had even buried it inside himself. If he kept it a secret now, Grant would eventually leave with the _Ranger_, and the truth would be buried once again. But if he told Dax, the secret would be out even when Grant was gone. Besides, what would she think? Would she pity him? Or would her fascination with the famous Dr. Grant color her judgement of Dr. Bashir? He cared a lot about what she thought of him.

At that moment the door chimed. Julian stopped pacing, tried to look natural, and cheerfully said, "Come in." The door opened, and Dax stepped in. She was dressed as usual in her black uniform with blue shoulders. Her long, brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail at the base of her neck. She smiled that same serene smile. She was beautiful. She always was.

"Are you ready?" she asked. Her eyes seemed to search his for some further clue to his strange behavior earlier that day.

"Yes," he answered, walking towards her and the door beyond, "although. . . ." He paused, as Dax took his arm. Julian sighed. He could tell that she was trying to be nice so that he would talk.

"What?" she asked, concern showing in her voice.

"You don't think he invited Maylon, do you?" Julian thought he felt her shoulders drop. Apparently, she'd been hoping for more.

"You don't want to see your old roommate?" she asked, teasing. The door hissed shut behind them as they walked toward the turbolift. Some of the doors along the corridor still showed traces of the painting the night before. Bashir's own door still bore the shadow of red from the Bajoran vandal's paint.

"To tell the truth," he admitted, "no. He's. . . ." He had to think for a moment for the right adjective to describe Maylon.

"Arrogant and obnoxious?" Dax offered.

"It's more than that."

Just then the lights went out in the corridor, plunging them into complete darkness. They stopped walking, and Julian pulled her over to the right until he felt the wall beneath his outstretched hand. His sense of balance tended to suffer without the benefit of sight. And in this blackness, he was as good as blind. "What now?" he asked impatiently. He hoped it was just a simple bug in the system, not the Bajorans deciding to step up their operations.

Dax slid her hand down Bashir's arm until she found his hand. Apparently she had been thinking the same thing. "No matter what, let's stick together," she said. Then she used her free hand to reach for her comm badge. "Dax to Ops."

"Ops," Kira answered. "Aren't you at dinner?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Dax answered. "But actually, Julian and I were on our way when the lights went out. Saying that it's dark would be an understatement."

"Hold on," she said seriously, "I'll check it out." There was a moment of silence, and then she was back. "It seems to be a leftover from last night. We should have them on in a minute."

"Good," Bashir said, relieved.

"Just hold on to something in case the gravity goes. You still wearing those boots, Doctor?"

"Ha ha," Julian said sarcastically. "Will we have the pleasure of your presence at dinner, Major?"

"Oh, it's very nice of you to ask, but I'm much too busy," she replied in a playful tone. "I have a murder to solve, vandals to catch, missing people to find, angry ship captains to argue with. I'm just swamped."

The lights came back on with no noticeable change in the strength of the artificial gravity. "Just keep telling yourself it's an adventure," he said.

"Kira out."

Dax was chuckling quietly. "Shall we?" Bashir asked, offering his arm again.

"Let's shall," she replied and smiled when Julian looked at her in confusion. But she didn't bother correcting herself as they continued to the turbolift. As the doors closed behind them, she said, "Upper Pylon Two."

There was a slight shift in gravity as the turbolift began to move, and Bashir thought nostalgically for a moment about the smooth lifts on Starfleet vessels. "Now what was that you were saying about Doctor Maylon?" Dax asked.

"He's just strange, I suppose," Julian replied. "He's very reserved, really, though he doesn't act like it. But I lived with him for three years, and I don't think I know him at all."

The turbolift arrived at the pylon with no further problems, and the doors opened smoothly. Julian motioned that Dax should step out first, and he followed her into the corridor. Two security officers stood outside the airlock doors, one from the _Ranger _and one from the station. The ship's security man watched them suspiciously, but the station officer smiled in recognition of the two officers. "Good evening, Doctor," he said as Bashir and Dax approached.

"Good evening, Lukas," Bashir returned. "How's that knee?"

"Just like new," the security officer answered. "You do good work." He was a tall, well-built man in his mid-thirties. Bashir had seen him after a wrestling match with a holosuite-generated Klingon, but without the usual benefit of safety features to insure against injury.

"Thank you. We've been invited to dinner by Doctor Grant."

"Names, please." This was the _Ranger_'s man.

Dax answered. "Lieutenants Jadzia Dax and Julian Bashir." They waited while the officer checked his padd for their names. Dax stood with her hands clasped behind her back and, as usual, a soft smile. Julian tried to calm the nerves that were building in his stomach. He really didn't want to be there.

"Sorry about all this," Lukas apologized, "but we have to careful. You understand."

"Of course," Julian answered. But he wouldn't have minded at all if there had been some mistake and his name was not on the padd. He'd have to go back to the station for dinner. But the other security officer turned and released the airlock door, which rolled open with a hiss.

"Have a good time, sirs," he said as they passed.

Julian heard the turbolift doors behind them and turned to see who was arriving. Dax waited as well. Walking back to the security man with the padd, Bashir stated, "Commander Benjamin Sisko." That sent the officer's fingers flying over the padd's controls until the name was found. Sisko waited calmly at the open airlock door until the security man waved him through.

"Thank you for waiting," Sisko said, but he didn't smile. He seemed preoccupied. And of course, he had good reason.

"How is the investigation going, Benjamin?" Dax inquired as they all stepped through the door on the other side of the airlock. The brightly lit, soft colors of the ship's corridors were a pleasing change from the austere darkness of the station.

"Which investigation?" Sisko responded. He sounded tired. "The one about the murder, or the one about the Bajorans? Or maybe the search for Mr. Harglin Nastrof?"

"All of the above," Julian answered. "Perhaps they're all related."

"We've thought about that. But we don't have any evidence yet. Kira's got the provisional government checking up on Bahtran Efin, the Gidari captain is getting impatient about Nastrof's whereabouts, and we still know very little about the Ferengi's murderer."

"Was there any evidence left in the bar?" Bashir queried. "He was eating. Perhaps there was something on the plate?"

"No," Sisko replied, "and he never touched his glass either. He doesn't seem to have eaten anything before the attack."

Julian had a thought then, though he wasn't quite sure it was a good one, or even very helpful. "What did he order?"

Sisko looked at him quizzically but didn't answer.

Bashir continued. "It's a long shot, but it might give us a clue as to the species of the murderer. While some people do eat various ethnic foods, many still prefer to stick to home favorites."

"The Gidari would be more apt to eat their own I would imagine," Dax added. "And Bajoran radicals."

"It's worth a shot," Sisko decided. They had arrived at Grant's quarters, but Sisko waved a hand to say they should wait before sounding the chime. He tapped his comm badge. "Sisko to Odo."

"Odo here." He sounded perturbed by the interruption.

"What did the murderer order at Quark's? There might be a clue to his identity."

There was a pause as Odo checked records. "Kohlanese stew." Kohlanese stew was a common dish at Quark's and liked by many different species.

"Doesn't help much. Thank you. Sisko out." Sisko shook his head, and then reached his hand toward the console beside the door. Julian's stomach twisted tighter with every inch. And then the door was opening. Grant stood smiling there, and Bashir, for a moment, almost remembered his father from a time before the fire.

"Welcome," Grant said extending his hand to each in turn as they stepped through the door. The doctor in Julian couldn't help noticing the coolness of Grant's hands. "I'm very glad that you could come. Oh, but where is the lovely major?"

"She's much too busy with the investigations," Dax replied, "but she sends her regards."

"Ah well." He turned to Bashir. "I do hope that you are feeling better, Doctor."

Julian answered politely, "Thank you. I'm fine, and yourself?" He noticed Dax watching him again, studying his face. Her smile though seemed to be approving.

"Just fine. Commander," he said to Sisko, "how is your son? I hope he wasn't too angry with my keeping you so late last night."

"Jake's fine," Sisko affirmed. "And you should call me Benjamin, Alex." Sisko was smiling now and seemed more relaxed, but Bashir resented the friendship that was apparent between his former father, whom he hated, and his current commanding officer, whom he greatly admired. He looked away and casually scanned Grant's quarters out of curiosity.

They were in a fairly large combination living room and dining room, comfortably furnished with a soft gray couch and chair. A tall, slender antique lamp with a white shade stood beside the couch, and Julian thought it looked familiar. A long dining table had been set up to one side with eight chairs. The door chirped, and two more guests arrived. Julian didn't recognize the two women who entered, but recognized from their uniforms that they were Grant's co-workers.

"Ah, welcome!" Grant said cheerfully. "May I introduce some new friends?" His right hand was outstretched to indicate the station officers. "Ladies, this is Commander Benjamin Sisko." He waited as Sisko shook hands with each of them. The first was a Vulcan, the second, Andorian. "Lieutenant Jadzia Dax, Chief Science Officer, and Chief Medical Officer Julian Bashir."

Grant then introduced the women. "Doctor T'Para and Doctor Seleva are my co-workers."

Dr. Seleva, the Andorian, was quiet and did not speak. "It is nice to meet you," T'Para said flatly, displaying no sign of pleasure. Bashir suspected that it was merely a useful sentence for her.

The door chirped again. "That must be the captain," Grant said, bouncing toward the door. A tall man entered, smiling warmly. Four circular pips on his collar confirmed that it was the _Ranger_'s captain. "Captain Gerin, may I introduce you to. . . ."

"Thank you, but I've already met the commander and Lieutenant. . . ." He didn't finish his sentence. He turned to Dax. "I never caught your name, Lieutenant."

Dax's smile widened. "Jadzia Dax," she replied, offering her hand.

Gerin took it and shook it firmly before looking to Bashir.

"Ah, and this is Doctor Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer," Grant said rather formally.

Julian extended his hand as well. "It's nice to meet you, Captain."

"Well, shall we sit?" Grant said brightly, leading them toward the table. Julian thought that Grant seemed rather hyper. But he'd only really met the man once before, so it was hard to judge. Grant pulled out the chair for T'Para, while Sisko and Bashir did likewise for the other women. "Would you like some wine?" Grant held up a bottle of red liquid and began to pour the glasses.

* * *

Kira picked up the tray from the replicator and carried it over to her station at communications. So far, it seemed that O'Brien's repairs to the replicators were holding. The coffee she had ordered steamed in the mug, and the bread was even warm, too. Steam also rose over the stew. She was just about to see if it tasted the way it was supposed to when she noticed the incoming call from Bajor. It was Bahtran Efin.

"This is Major Kira Nerys," she said, putting the call on the large, elliptical main viewscreen. Bahtran was a young man, perhaps thirty, with red hair and dark brown eyes. He was dressed smartly, and Kira decided that his business must be doing well. Whether it was doing well honestly was something she intended to find out. "Thank you for calling."

"I was contacted by Security. They said you had one of my couplings." He did not appear worried or nervous. "How may I help you?"

"Our computers were tampered with last night. The perpetrators used this coupling," she said, holding it up, "to tap into our systems. I was hoping that you might be able to help me find those responsible."

"I'd be glad to help if I can. I can tell you who bought it. I'll run the serial number through my computer." The businessman looked down toward his computer. "Ah, here it is. It was sold one month ago to someone named Targo. I'm sorry I don't have a given name."

Kira was impressed by his helpfulness. Perhaps he was honest. "Do you have any other information that might help?"

"Let's see. . . ." He looked away again, checking his computer. "Targo bought seven such couplings, a portable monitor and some peripheral accessories. It was a pretty big order. I think I remember." Bahtran thought for a moment. "It was a man. He was old. He had gray hair, white really. He was tall, about six foot three. He didn't seem to know much about computers. I suspect he was buying them for someone else. He had a list." He chuckled then. "I remember," he said, "he stopped to pray over his purchases before he left. He made quite a scene, asking for the Blessing of the Prophets." Bahtran's tone ridiculed the old man's faith.

Kira rankled at the laughter. She admired the spiritual devotion of these terrorists even if she abhorred their other convictions. "Thank you for your help, Mr. Bahtran. I'll get in touch with you if I need anything else." She stabbed a finger out that ended the transition. Bahtran's face disappeared to be replaced by silent stars surrounded by the blackness of space.

She looked at her dinner, pulled the tray near her and was glad to find the mug of coffee still warm to the touch. She lifted the spoon to her mouth. The stew was wonderful, just like home-made, with all the right spices. It was neither too thin nor too thick. It was perfect. A light on her console alerted her to another call. She pushed the tray aside again.

"I demand clearance to leave this station," the captain of the Tellarite ship announced haughtily.

Kira counted to three silently and then put on her best diplomatic smile. "I'm sorry, Captain," she said. "No one is allowed to leave until we're certain--"

"I have goods to deliver," he interrupted, "and schedules to keep."

Kira's smile slipped a little. She did not try to bring it back. "And I have a murder to deal with. We cannot allow any ship to leave that might be carrying the murderer."

"Are you inferring that we are harboring a murderer?" The captain was incredulous, or at least, Kira thought, he was trying to act that way. He was trying to be intimidating. Kira was not intimidated easily.

Her smile returned. "I am inferring nothing. A murderer might slip unnoticed aboard any of the ships docked at this station in an effort to make his escape. Not only can we not allow the murderer to escape, but we do not wish to endanger other vessels."

"We are in danger by staying at this station."

"If the murderer did slip aboard a vessel, he might commit murders on those vessels as well." Kira held firm. "We cannot allow you to depart at this time."

The screen went abruptly blank. Kira let out a long breath and reached for her tray. That was the third captian this evening who demanded clearance to leave the station and keep their schedules. _If you'd quit bothering us, and let us do our jobs_, she thought, _we could catch the bastard and let you leave a lot sooner_.

She lifted her mug and took a careful sip of her coffee. But there was little need for her caution; it was only just warm. Kira moved the tray off the display on her console and pulled up the list of known terrorists on the station as she took a bite of her stew. It wasn't bad. It just wasn't hot.

Targo was not on the station, at least not under that name. She tapped a few more panels connected to the planet's security database, and there he was. "Targo Kob. Age 94. Hair: gray. Height: 6'2"." And the picture showed a semi-wrinkled face, crowned by almost white hair.

"Computer," she said. The computer chirped to signal that it was ready for a command. "Cross reference with all Bajorans on the station."

"Working," the flat voice of the computer responded. There was a slight pause and then, "No one matching this description is on the station."

Kira frowned and then transmitted a request to the provisional government to find Targo Kob and hold him for questioning. Then she turned her attention to the missing Harglin Nastrof. She had already tried to run a scan of the station, but the computer had no information on the Gidari to go by. The Gidari's own ship resisted any attempt at scanning. So between bites of stew and sips of lukewarm coffee, she ran scans for each of the known species on the station. Hopefully, Nastrof would be the only one she couldn't identify.

Another call lit up on her console. It was the _Gindarin_. Kira punched it up to the main viewscreen. A hooded figure replaced the stars, but the background was the same blackness. Apparently, the Gidari were afraid that someone would see a part of their ship over the comm channels. "I'm Captain Nardek. Who are you?" the Gidari said roughly. The captain's voice was scratchy and deep.

"I'm Major Kira Nerys." Kira forced her face into a polite smile. "How may I help you?"

"I want to speak to Commander Sisko."

"I'm sorry, the commander isn't available. I'm First Officer, perhaps I can help you."

The Gidari was silent for a short time. "I want my crewman returned."

Kira noted a patch of red on one shoulder of the captain's cloak. She had read about something similar in one of the reports from the murder. "If you are referring to Mr. Nastrof, we have not yet located him," she told him calmly, still smiling.

"Why is it taking so long? Your Security is inadequate!"

Kira began to lose her patience. "You haven't helped much. We can't even run a scan to see if he's on the station. If you could transmit some information, something we could scan for--"

"We will not expose ourselves to your scrutiny. How am I to know that you haven't already found Nastrof and are keeping him for study? A Gidari was seen on your station this afternoon! You have no right!"

"Someone with a Gidari cloak was seen this afternoon, yes," Kira clarified. "But that person was involved in a homicide. We do not have Nastrof. We're trying to locate him. Perhaps," she countered, "you've had him all along and are trying to cover for his involvement in the murder."

"That's ridiculous!"

Kira lowered her voice. "Of course it is. About as ridiculous as your accusation. It would be a lot more helpful if you would cooperate rather than diverting my attention from the search to insult this station and its personnel."

Nardek didn't answer, but his figure disappeared from the screen. Kira sighed. That kind of conversation was the part of the job that she hated. She took another sip of her coffee and nearly spat it back out. It was cold.


	4. Chapter Four

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Four**

The Ferengi seemed to recover quickly from the afternoon's events. They scurried about as usual, hastening to serve and steal if the opportunity should arise. They did seem to be a little more wary, since they backed away from the tables they served. Maylon stifled his laughter as he watched, but they were only a momentary entertainment. He was more interested in the young Bajoran woman who sat in one dark corner of the upper level.

He had seen her earlier on the Promenade as she window-shopped with her young friend. She was attractive with long, blond hair swept off her forehead and brushed back over her shoulders. Her long, slender fingers held a glass filled with a clear liquid. An old man sat with her, and they talked together quietly. She looked over occasionally, and Maylon casually averted his eyes back to the eager Ferengi.

He waited for about fifteen minutes for the old man to leave. He swallowed down the last of his synthale for courage and ordered another, telling the waiter to bring it to the table in the corner where the woman sat. She stared at him suspiciously as he approached, and he smiled in an effort to reassure her. "May I join you?" he asked politely.

"What do you want?" She didn't mince words, and she didn't return his smile.

"I want only to share your company," Maylon said bowing, "and to buy you a drink." He sat in the empty seat across from her. "What is it you're having? Vodka?"

"Water," she corrected him tersely. "I saw you earlier. You were staring at me. What do you want?"

"You're a beautiful woman." He watched her face, waiting for her features to soften. "I'm surprised every man on this station doesn't stare." She didn't soften, but she sighed in resignation.

"Maybe other men are smart enough to know that they look threatening when they stare at a woman." She sipped the last of her water. "You should be more careful."

"I must remember that," he replied dreamily. She _was_ beautiful, especially now that he could see her face. He was captivated by her brown eyes, unusual with her fair hair. Her nose was characteristically creased leading up to a delicate ridge--shaped like the wings of a bird in flight-- spreading out parallel with her blonde eyebrows and tapering off into her smooth forehead. "I'm Maylon."

"Don't humans usually have two names?"

"Usually," he answered, "if they come from Earth. But I was raised in a separatists' colony on Ahmossa IV. My parents and their compatriots gave up all technology and the use of last names." The waiter arrived then with his synthale. "Bring the lady another water, please," he said to the waiter without looking up at him. The Ferengi would have looked hidious in comparison to the woman across the table.

"Then how did you end up in Starfleet?" she asked without thanking him.

"You're very observant," responded Maylon, who was not wearing his uniform this evening. "I rebelled at an early age, not least because of my people's hypocrisy. They disdained technology, even that which saves lives and betters existence. But when they were unable to set up a self- sufficient colony, they relied on a weekly transport of food and supplies from other colonies who weren't quite so ideologically rigid and agriculturally unsuccessful. I became a stowaway and worked my way to Earth."

"That's lovely," she remarked absently. She didn't appear interested, but she asked him what he did now.

"I'm a doctor," he answered with pride. He really liked the sound of it. "I use the technology which my parents scorn to save lives. And what about you?"

"My parents are dead." She had said it flatly, but he could sense her bitterness. He almost felt guilty for asking, even though that really hadn't been his actual question.

"The occupation?" he asked quietly. She nodded. The waiter returned carrying her water, and Maylon tipped him. He didn't so much appreciate the service as the interruption. It was a chance to turn the conversation in a more pleasing, and a more informative, direction. "I didn't catch your name."

"I didn't give it." Her voice still matched her tight lips and steely eyes. She still didn't trust him. But she relented. "Fareed. Fareed Taleyn."

Maylon wanted to ask how she spelled that, but thought better of it. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss. . . ." He stopped momentarily. "It is 'Miss,' isn't it? You were with a man when I saw you last, and I. . . ."

She laughed lightly, smiling for the first time since he joined her. "If you're talking about the man tonight," she said, "I would hope that you'd think him too old for me. He's my uncle. And as for the man this afternoon, I'm afraid I'm too old for him. He's my brother."

"I had hoped," Maylon said as he sipped his synthale. "But I didn't want to presume, Miss Taleyn."

"Fareed," she corrected. "Bajoran surnames come before the given name."

"Then your given name equals your beauty."

"And you're drunk." Her smile had faded, but her cheeks appeared to have grown a little more pink. "Thank you for your company, but I must be going. My uncle will worry if I don't return."

"Perhaps I can see you again."

"You didn't ask the first time," she said, neither bolstering his confidence nor dissuading it. "Will you be leaving soon for the Gamma Quadrant?"

"Not for a little while. We have some tests first."

"But you will go?" she pressed.

"Of course," Maylon answered. "It's only a matter of time."

She stood up, and Maylon stood up with her. "I must go," she repeated.

Maylon watched her walk away and then waved for a waiter. A young Ferengi boy, who did not look very enthusiastic about his work, arrived, and Maylon ordered his dinner. Then he handed the Ferengi two bars of gold-pressed latinum. The boy beamed, and greed registered in his eyes. Maylon smiled with satisfaction. The boy was his to command. "What's your name, boy?"

"Nog, sir." The boy was finding it hard to stand still in his excitement.

"Nog, I appreciate good service." Maylon's tone was slow and deliberate.

"Yes, sir."

"I especially appreciate someone who goes beyond the call of duty." His voice now had a philosophical quality. "I think I would consider that person a friend."

The boy could hardly contain himself, but he held his composure so as to match Maylon's conspiratorial tone. "Yes, sir."

"I'm quite smitten with the young lady who just left. Do you know how I might find some more information about her?"

"Yes, sir!"

Maylon nodded, and the boy bounded away. Maylon hoped he remembered the dinner as well as the information.

* * *

Dinner was particularly good and reminded Bashir of the times in his childhood when he was in England. Each plate had already been set with a steaming helping of roast beef with horse radish sauce and Yorkshire pudding. The mashed potatoes were soft, hot, and not too starchy. Brussels sprouts, and carrots were also available in white porcelain bowls on the table. There was wine to drink but also a fruit syrup that, when added to water, made a nice refreshment.

The conversation was mildly interesting to the doctor, though Commander Sisko tended to confine his attention to the food. Given the abundance of scientists at the table, they were bound to end up discussing the latest theory or the nuances of xenobiology. Sisko might have had little to add, but Bashir's medical background led to a relatively extensive knowledge of other related sciences.

Bashir contributed his share of information and opinions, but he wasn't really in the mood for contemplating the latest virus to be discovered or the reasons for atmospheric dispersal on Unor Mardin VII. He was more interested in Dr. Grant, who sat directly across from him.

Dax was fully enveloped in the conversation, so she forgot about watching Bashir. She practically glowed in enthusiasm. T'Para, for her part, played very well the good Vulcan. She never once showed any emotion or expressed any pleasure or displeasure with anything that was mentioned. Dr. Seleva, who had been reserved when dinner started had opened up in excitement in the ensuing conversation. While Gerin wasn't a scientist, he was the captain of a science vessel, and he did take some interest in the discussions.

Grant showed as much ardor as the other scientists. But even as he was seriously discussing Unor Mardin's environmental conditions his hands shook in small, quick movements, and sweat began to bead his forehead. He appeared to be exceedingly thirsty as well, for he kept reaching for his glass, which was now filled with a mix of fruit syrup and water.

"Whatever's causing it," Bashir said, "it has to have been recent. There were no reports of environmental problems until the last fifteen years or so. Perhaps the Geothermic Infusion Reactor had something to do with it. I remember the Unorian ambassador was very exciting about the new technology when my parents were stationed on Unor Mardin VI. But it hadn't been tested, so they were going to to try it out first on the seventh planet, since it was unihabited. It didn't work, though, and they had to shut it down."

"What did your parents do on Unor Mardin VI, Doctor?" Seleva asked. "The Unorians were in the middle of a civil war fifteen years ago."

"My father was the mediator between the factions," Bashir answered, allowing a little pride to show. "He helped them come to a peaceful settlement."

"But they've had an infusion reactor on Unor Mardin VI for nearly six years now," Dax argued, "and there is no evidence of dispersal there."

"The reactor was a sound idea, in principle," T'Para added. "However, the Unorians lacked the level of technology that would sufficiently regulate the flow of energy from the planet's core. It wasn't until they joined the Federation, six and a half years ago, that they were able to obtain the proper equipment."

"Your father is a diplomat?" Grant said quietly, not realizing that anyone else had heard. He seemed to be mulling that over, as if he were all alone in the room. He had forgotten about his guests, who now began to look at him in concern as well.

Every muscle in Julian's body tensed. He just watched Grant for a moment, wondering what would happen next. Grant had been speaking to him. Grant's eyes were now wandering loosely under half-closed eyelids. Julian almost stood up, but Grant beat him to it.

Grant had grown pale. His face was an unhealthy white when he stood. Bashir and the others stood with him in concern. Then Grant's eyes fixed on Julian's with such an intensity that the young doctor froze. "Julian Bashir," Grant said in a breathy voice, his eyes widening in shock and fear. Julian's stomach tightened painfully and jumped to somewhere nearer his lungs. "Julian. . . ." Grant's shoulders began to sway, and his eyes rolled upward under his eyelids as he tumbled to the floor.

Sisko had caught him halfway down and gently lowered his head to the floor. Bashir practically leapt around the table though he didn't have any of his medical equipment with him. To Bashir, Grant looked like an alien lying there on the floor. It wasn't so much the man's appearance, but the effect he'd had on Bashir just before he'd collapsed. Grant knew.

"Let's get him to the couch," Bashir told Sisko. T'Para, who had, of course, kept her composure completely, tapped her comm badge, and calmly asked for medical assistance.

Sisko and Bashir placed Grant on the couch, and Bashir propped the man's feet up on the arm. Placing his fingers at the side of Grant's neck, he took the man's pulse. It was quite high at 130 beats per minute. He walked quickly back to the table, picked up one of the cloth napkins, and plunged it into the pitcher of water. He twisted it a few times to stop it from dripping and returned to place it on the forehead of the the unconscious Dr. Grant. Taking his pulse again, he was relieved to find that it had dropped to 110.

The door opened across the room, and Maylon entered with a nurse. "I'll take over now," he said calmly and with confidence. Julian backed out of the way for him. Maylon knelt beside the couch and began to examine Grant with his tricorder. "What happened?"

"He seems to have fainted," Julian answered. "But he didn't look particularly well all evening."

"What do you mean?"

"He seemed hyper at first. Later, his hands began to shake, and his attention seemed to waver just a bit. He looked overheated. Then his eyes began to glaze, and he grew pale. Then he fainted. His pulse was high--130 bps."

"He's almost normal now. I'm going to take him to Sickbay for tests." The nurse called for the transporter to stand by, and Maylon continued his scan. He appeared confused and scanned again.

"So, Julian, you'd have dinner with a complete stranger just because he's a famous scientist, but will you stop by to visit your old roommate?" Maylon didn't take his eyes off his patient as he teased Bashir. "Nooo."

"I practically had to force him to come tonight," Dax said in Julian's defense.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, I hadn't noticed you here tonight, what with the medical emergency and all. I suspect that Doctor Bashir came more for your company than for our friend Grant here."

On the couch, Grant began to stir. Julian had been standing near the couch still and could hear him as he murmured in muffled semi-consciousness. "It's you . . . Julian. . . ."

Maylon had heard, too, but the statement lacked any significance. "We're going to take you to Sickbay, Doctor Grant," Maylon said in a soothing voice. "Just rest now."

Julian could feel his own heart racing and hoped that his face wasn't turning red. He caught sight of Dax, who was standing just behind him. She couldn't have shown any more concern or confusion if she'd been an empath. She must have heard, too. Julian turned away from her. But she placed her hand gently on his shoulder.

"We should go now," Sisko suggested as Maylon ordered the transport. Julian nodded, inwardly relieved. The room emptied as the doctor, nurse, and patient disappeared in the shimmering effect of the transporter.

* * *

Inara said nothing until the door had shut behind her and she had locked it. "They're still going," she said, shaking her head.

"Unfortunate," the old man sighed. He was sitting at the small round dinner table with Liian. Liian had a book open in front of him. They'd been studying about the Prophets. "But in that case, it seems we still have work to do. I had hoped they'd listen to us, but I had serious doubts that we could scare them off with so gentle an approach."

"But what about the virus?" Liian protested. "That should have worked."

"It did work, Liian," Inara answered, though she knew that's not what he had meant. "But the Federation has many computer experts. They fixed it. You must remember, we did not rid ourselves of the Cardassians in only one day either."

"I know." His voice dropped, and he lowered his head. "It's just that I don't want to. . . ."

"Liian." Inara sat down. She didn't know quite where to start. "We've talked about this. You said you'd do anything."

"And I _will_," he said emphasizing the last word. He looked up at her. He wanted her to understand. "I just don't _want _to. I wish things were different so I wouldn't have to. So you wouldn't have to. So none of us would have to."

Inara rubbed his hair and sighed. "We all wish that. Make sure the shop you pick is empty. We don't want to hurt any Bajorans who might be around."

Liian nodded. Inara walked to the bed and pulled her computer out from under it. Then she sat down and began to work.

* * *

Tsingras now knew why the people were complaining. _I'm definitely quitting_, he thought. An acrid odor filled the duct he was crawling in and grew stronger as he moved forward. His stomach was beginning to turn from the stench. He had to use his tricorder to trace it now. It had become so strong that he couldn't tell from which side it was emanating when he hit an intersection.

The tricorder itself didn't quite know what to make of it, but it could point the way to the higher concentrations of whatever it was in the air. Tsingras had his own idea about the smell. Something had died in there.

He stopped for a moment and retrieved the small gas mask from his bag. When he put it on, it covered his mouth and nose and cut off the awful pungency. He sighed and took a deep breath of the clean, odorless air. Then checking his tricorder, he turned to the right and crawled forward again. There were extremely high concentrations about fifty meters ahead.

The ventilation ducts were smaller than the access crawlways so it was harder to move forward, especially with a tricorder in one hand and dragging his bag and palm beacon with the other. He wasn't quite sure that he wanted to find what was causing the smell. He was sure it was dead. If the tricorder couldn't identify it, he felt he had reason to worry.

In time he'd traversed the fifty meters. Nothing. He checked the tricorder again. There was an intersection just ahead. He edged up and flashed his light off to the left. The thin beam of light reflected on the wall of the duct, and Tsingras arced it slowly. Then he saw something dark. It was a sickening black color, like something very rotten. It was about two meters into the duct. Tsingras sighed and moved cautiously into the duct, pushing the light in front of him.

It was a lump, as far as he could tell. He continued slowly forward. The tricorder was useless. Despite its proximity, the instrument still couldn't identify what was in the duct. Tsingras edged forward some more, and his light caught something white in the end of the black lump. He propelled himself forward in spite of his instincts. _Forget tomorrow_, they screamed. _Quit now! _

He was close enough to touch it now. He felt something sticky beneath his hand. A gummy, viscous liquid had seeped from the thing. It was an ugly blue color in the light. He turned the beam back to the lump and the white he'd seen before.

Eyes. Tsingras screamed in his mask and jumped up so that he hit his head on the top of the duct. He backed away quickly, sticking his hand in the goo again in his haste. He felt sick. He wanted to tear the mask off, but that would have been worse. Finally, when he reached the intersection again, he lay flat in the duct and took deep breaths.

He began to calm down. It _was _something dead. It was a body. The eyes had stood out from the face. Could he really call it a face? _The Gidari_, he thought. _It must be the Gidari_. The tricorder could have identified anyone else.

When he'd regained his composure, he edged forward into the duct again. He could look at it now. The first "lump" that he'd seen was its head, its face turned to the side at an odd angle. Long white hair lay on the floor of the duct under it. The eyes did indeed stand out from the face. They were open wide and completely white, but dirty and dry, like the belly if a catfish after it had been out of the water for a few hours.

Farther down, the body was naked to the waist. It wore dark pants, with tall boots of a soft gray color. Tsingras didn't doubt that the Gidari had been murdered. Maybe he wouldn't quit tomorrow. He wondered though, how the murderer had managed to get the body so far into the ventilation system.

Tsingras tapped his comm badge. "Tsingras to Ops." He was aware that his voice would sound strange and muted by the mask, but he didn't dare remove it.

"Ops, Major Kira here. What did you find, Ensign?"

"I, I think I've found the Gidari. He's dead."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the commline. "We'll transport him directly to the Infirmary."

"They'll want him in stasis or something. He's quite, well, putrid."

"Where is he?"

"Right in front of me. Look, could you beam me out as well? It took me hours to get in here, and it's a little tight for turning around."

"Alright. Wait for me in the Infirmary. Prepare for transport. Kira out."

Tsingras was a mess when he materialized in the Infirmary. A nurse helped him to his feet. He was covered in the blue sticky mess that had come from the body. The nurse quickly covered her nose. Tsingras, himself, was still wearing the gas mask.

"Is it all like that?" the doctor asked from the other side of the room where he was preparing a containment field for the body.

"Afraid so," Tsingras answered. "You got something I can change into? The major told me to wait here."

"Yes," the doctor replied. The nurse left him and returned with a hospital jumper in one hand. The other hand still covered her nose. She didn't come too close, but held the jumper out to him. "Then burn that uniform, okay?" the doctor added.

"No problem."

The nurse pointed him toward another room where he could change. Just as the door closed behind him, he could hear the doctor telling them to transport the body.

* * *

The call that the Gidari's body had been found had come just in time. The walk down the _Ranger_'s corridor had been rather tense. Bashir wasn't quite sure why he wouldn't talk to Dax, except perhaps that he was being childish. He knew he was. It would probably do him good to talk it out with someone, to get it off his chest.

But he still couldn't do it. In his heart he knew that Dax wouldn't turn against him, but the fear remained, however irrational. He also felt like he'd be feeding someone's morbid sense of curiosity if he told about his birth-father, something like a freak show in a circus. And here is the kid who was abandoned by his father, and if you look carefully you can see the grave his father dug for him. Irrational? Of course, but he still just couldn't seem to get past it.

Dax, he could tell was wanting to ask him about what Grant had meant. But fortunately she respected his wish for privacy enough to let it alone in Sisko's presence. He knew she was just waiting to corner him alone though. The call at least postponed any chances of that happening. Instead, all three of the officers had rushed toward the airlock. They waited impatiently for the big door to roll aside and then hurried to the turbolift that would take them to the Promenade where the Infirmary was.

Sisko stood off to the side of the room, out of the way. Dax offered her assistance in preparing the containment field that surrounded the biobed. They had been warned that the body smelled quite bad. They didn't know how badly until Ensign Tsingras materialized, lying on the floor, his uniform stained from part of the remains. The odor was appalling, and Bashir had been thankful when the man had offered to change clothes.

"We're ready," he said after tapping his comm badge. At that moment Kira entered. She and Sisko talked quietly. "Transport." The light within the containment field began to sparkle and shimmer. In seconds the body appeared and multi-colored lights lit up on the headboard of the bed.

The body was an ugly black mass of decaying flesh, oozing a bluish fluid. As a doctor, Bashir had seen dead bodies before, even semi-decayed bodies, but he was quite taken aback by the Gidari corpse. Dax, who as a scientist could look at and even touch some rather disgusting substances, backed away from the biobed and averted her eyes.

Bashir tried to make light of the situation. "Just our luck. We finally get a look at a Gidari, and he's half melted."

"We won't have him for long," Sisko replied. "The Gidari will want him back, and you can bet they won't want an autopsy. Can you tell how he died?"

Bashir activated some of the sensors on the bed and reached for his tricorder. He couldn't touch the body through the containment field, and, doubtless, the Gidari would be highly upset if they felt it was tampered with in any way. The black, decomposed skin hid the details of his features. The computer could see through the color and shadows and display a clearer picture.

The body was only half-clothed. There were no puncture wounds, and all internal organs seemed to be intact, though in their state of decomposition it was difficult to be sure. It did add a little to the sparse knowledge of Gidari anatomy. They had two hearts and three lungs. Their brains occupied an area more to the back of their oval-shaped heads rather than on the top as other humanoid brains tended to do.

The trachea was depressed, smashed in fact. Bashir stepped closer to the head of the body to examine the face. The eyes, completely white so that they appeared to lack pupils and irises, were pushed forward, standing out from the face. About six centimeters below its eyes, a long, swollen tongue stuck out of its opened mouth. "Asphyxiation," Bashir proclaimed. "He's been strangled."

"You're sure?" Sisko asked, stepping forward only a little.

"Yes, his trachea's been completely cut off. I can't make out much else. They decay rather quickly."

"Well, we've got to give him back. Kira slowed them down, but we can't keep him more than a few minutes. The captain is being escorted here in order to identify the body. Let's get those sensors off and dim the lights. We'll try to avoid any conflict if we can."

"Right," Bashir replied, and all the displays went black at the touch of his finger. Then he turned away from the biobed and joined the other officers where they stood. "Computer, dim lights over Biobed Three."

The door opened again, and Captain Nardek appeared flanked by two Bajoran security officers. There was really no need for a Security escort, but Bashir assumed that it was a stalling technique invented by Kira to give them a little more time to examine the remains. The captain walked with angry steps, and Bashir was glad he was just the doctor. He didn't have to deal firsthand with furious ship captains.

Sanglin Nardek scanned the room before he spoke. His voice was unexpectedly calm. "Why could we not simply transport the remains directly to our ship?"

_Good question_, Bashir thought. If the station's crew was not examining the body at all, why indeed was the body beamed to the Inirmary and not to the _Gindarin_?

Sisko answered, just as calmly as his counterpart. "There is a murder investigation going on. It was necessary to view the body. But, respecting your privacy, we have waved the customary autopsy."

"It should be obvious, by his death, that Harglin Nastrof is not your murderer."

"Yes," Sisko affirmed, "but he was murdered by the same person as the previous victim. The murderer stole his cloak. This information will help us in our further investigations here on the station. And the cause of death was easily identified without serious examination."

Nardek's hooded face turned towards the body. "I had hoped that it wouldn't come to this." His voice was distant and reflective. "But I did expect it. Nastrof would have returned to the ship if he was able. You notified me as soon as he was found?" The firmness of his voice then surprised the officers.

"Yes," Sisko answered smoothly, "Ensign Tsingras found the body at precisely 2157 and reported it to Major Kira who notified you." He indicated with his hand the officers he mentioned.

"You found the body?"

Tsingras, who had been standing unobtrusively at the back of the room, was unaware that he'd been spoken to and didn't answer for a moment. When all the heads turned to face him, he nearly jumped. "Uh, yes," he finally answered.

"And you reported it right away?"

Tsingras was more composed now, and he stood at attention. "Yes, sir."

Nardek was silent. He stood still. Because of the hood, no one could tell what he was thinking. Was he angry? Then he spoke. "I shall have to insist that all relevant records from your scanning devices be destroyed. Including portable devices as well as those here."

Sisko didn't respond, but looked to Bashir, deferring the reply to the doctor. They were, after all, medical records and, therefore, his responsibility.

"Of course. I see no problem with that," Julian answered sincerely and walked over to the biobed. The state of the remains left little of importance for the records. A full autopsy might have divulged more, but that had not been possible. What he did have, he could easily remember in his own head. Picking up a small rectangular chip, he ordered the computer to transfer all information gleaned from the scans to the removable chip.

"Task complete," the computer's flat female voice intoned.

Bashir then downloaded the information from his tricorder's memory, too. Tsingras had taken the initiative as well to offer his tricorder to the doctor. When both of the tricorders had been purged of any information pertaining to the Gidari, Bashir removed the chip and handed it to the Gidari captain. "It's yours to do with as you please."

"May I transport the body now?" Nardek turned back toward the commander.

"Of course," Sisko answered.

Nardek lifted his arm and produced something from the sleeves of his cloak. Without another word, he pressed a few buttons, and both he and the body disappeared in a bright flash of blue light.

Sisko, who had been standing stiffly while the Gidari captain was there, visibly relaxed. "That went rather well, actually." He seemed surprised. "I'm sorry you lost all your information, Doctor."

"There wasn't much anyway. Two hearts, three lungs. That's about all I got. He must have known that we couldn't see much, since he was so far gone."

"Well, what can this tell us about the murderer?"

"Not much, I'm afraid, except that it's the same murderer, and he isn't a Gidari," Bashir replied.

"Not necessarily," Kira retorted, though Bashir could tell that her heart wasn't in it. "He could have been murdered by another Gidari, but, given, the odds are terribly slim."

"Do we know when he died?" Sisko again.

"I have no way of knowing. We don't know the rate of decay, only that it's fast."

"Alright." Sisko crossed his arms and thought for a moment. "Well, we know he was last seen at 0200 this morning. We can assume he died shortly thereafter. Buy why would someone kill the Gidari and then a Ferengi? What's the motive?"

Everyone thought for a moment, but no one answered.

"Make sure Security gets a report on this," the commander continued, uncrossing his arms. "I want this man found. And I want extra Security in the habitat ring and on the Promenade tonight in case the Bajorans try something else."

"Or the murderer," Dax added.

Sisko nodded. "Without a motive, we can't know who he'll be after next. Let's call it a day." He started to head for the door, but then remembered Tsingras. "Ensign," he said, turning back, "I don't need to tell you. This should be kept quiet."

Tsingras had remained in the room, eyes wide with interest and adventure at being part of the murder investigation. He came to attention again when Sisko addressed him. "Of course, sir."

Sisko didn't look wholly convinced, but he let it go. He turned back to the door.

"Ensign," Kira said, again addressing Tsingras, "I'd like a full report. You can fill one out in Security right now."

"Yes, sir." Tsingras replied, confidently.

Dax didn't follow them out the door.

When the nurses had gone back to their usual duties and they were alone in the Infirmary, Julian felt the pressure of Dax's presence return. He sat down and began to draw up a report on the Gidari, hoping that she'd leave him to his work.

"Julian," she began cautiously. Bashir wouldn't look at her. "What happened at dinner?"

Julian decided to play stupid again. "What do you mean? Grant became ill. He fainted."

"But it had something to do with you." Her voice was soft. She was trying to be soothing, unthreatening.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said evenly, but his fingers jabbed a little harder at the console on his desk. He hoped to put her off politely.

But she continued to force the issue. "I've noticed the way you act around him. You're tense and rude--"

"Was I rude at dinner?" Julian asked, letting his voice raise just a little. Then he regretted it. Now he sounded defensive.

"No, you behaved very well tonight," she conceded. "But that's just my point. It's like you were putting on an act for my benefit."

Julian didn't say anything. He had stopped working on his report. He just sat and stared at the screen. She was right, of course. But he didn't want to talk about it. No, that wasn't true. He did. He wanted to tell her, to say how confused he was, how afraid, but he just couldn't. He couldn't make himself say it.

"And when Grant stood up, he looked like he'd seen a ghost. And he kept saying your name. What did he mean?"

"He was ill and probably half-delirious. How am I to know what he meant?"

She wasn't buying it. "He knew you, Julian."

"He doesn't know me," Julian replied, and felt in his heart that at least that part was true.

This time, Dax was silent. He was frustrating her, he knew. She sighed. "You're lying," she said flatly.

"Jadzia--"

"I worry about you," she pressed, not letting him finish. "I can tell that something is hurting you, and I want to help you."

"I don't need your help or your concern." His voice was even and assertive, but he felt like a mess inside. It wasn't even him who answered her, it seemed. Inside, the real Julian Bashir was telling her everything, but his mouth kept pushing her away. "I don't want to talk about it."

She was silent again. "If you change your mind," she finally said quietly, "you know how to find me."

Bashir sat still until he heard the door close behind her. Then he practically crumpled over the desk. He was miserable. He felt guilty for being curt, especially with her. But he was relieved that she was gone.

* * *

Grant tried to force himself to remain calm. Bashir. The doctor was his son. But then maybe he just wanted to believe that, to have found him so he could try to make peace. He didn't, in truth, have much to go by. The doctor had the boy's name and his father--_adopted?_--was a diplomat.

"Doctor Grant, I think we need to talk."

Grant opened his eyes to the face of Dr. Maylon, who was leaning over the bed so that his face hung right in Grant's line of sight. In his excitement about his son, he'd forgotten that he was in sickbay. Why had he been brought here? He couldn't quite remember. He'd used the hypospray late that afternoon--he did remember that--though he had reduced the dosage so that he wouldn't sleep through dinner. Perhaps he had misjudged his tolerance. Something must have happened.

"How are you feeling?" Maylon asked.

"I . . . I'm fine," Grant answered trying to sound fine. He couldn't stay here, that was obvious. They'd find out about his . . . hypospray. He tried not to think of the actual drug; it was easier just to call it 'the hypospray.' "Why am I here?" he asked in return.

"You collapsed in your quarters after dinner this evening. How have you been feeling lately?"

"Fine," Grant replied. Maylon was trying to draw him out. Grant was a doctor, too. He knew how they operated. If he was any good at all, Maylon would have run a diagnostic scan and found out about the. . . .

"I've found traces of stenacine in your blood."

. . . Stenacine. He'd found it. Grant's heart began to pump harder and faster. His career could be ruined. He tried to hide it, to act casual, but it was hard, lying there on the biobed with displays above his head constantly monitoring his pulse. "I've been having trouble sleeping."

"You do realize, Doctor Grant," Maylon continued, stressing Grant's title, "that stenacine is an addictive narcotic?"

"I'm a doctor and a scientist. I am well aware of its properties." There was a note of offended dignity in his tone. Of course he knew. He'd helped develop it for use as a powerful anesthetic nearly thirty years before.

"Yes, I thought you would be. How long have you been taking the drug?" Maylon was calm, but his tone implied that of a father gently chastising his son.

Grant was on the defensive. "Only just recently."

"How recently?"

Was Maylon a lawyer, too? Grant thought quickly. "Since the break-in and the virus. It disturbed me."

"We only found out about that this morning. Why would that then disturb your sleep?"

"This morning?" Grant asked quietly, looking away. And he regretted that, too. Now he sounded like a doddering old man. Only this morning? What then? "The Gamma Quadrant."

Maylon had easily dismissed everything Grant had suggested thus far, but this one seemed to have caught his attention. His eyebrows knitted in confusion and interest. "What about the Gamma Quadrant?"

Grant calmed down a little, and concentrated on his idea. "It's new territory, light-years away from the known galaxy. It'll be years before I see my family again. And what if the wormhole should close? We'd never make it back in my lifetime. I'd never see my grandchildren again."

Maylon straightened and mulled that over for a little while, turning his back to Grant. Grant, for his part, fervently hoped that Maylon had accepted the excuse.

Maylon let out a long breath before turning back to his patient. "I can understand that. I have doubts about the Gamma Quadrant, too. But you weren't assigned here. You're not even Starfleet. You signed up for this mission."

"I know. It's the opportunity of a lifetime." Grant was telling the truth, at least as far as the Gamma Quadrant was concerned. "But that doesn't discount the doubts."

Maylon nodded in agreement. "Stenacine is dangerous. If you'd like, I can prescribe a sleep agent. If you get addicted now, before we've ever gone into the Quadrant, you won't make it back. I can guarantee that. It'll kill you."

"May I return to my quarters, Doctor?"

"No more stenacine?" Maylon was the father again.

"I promise." And Grant, the repentant son.

"Fine. I'll have the nurse escort you back. He'll give you something to help you sleep." Maylon now appeared slightly preoccupied. He kept looking toward the chronometer.

"No, that's alright. I'm quite tired now. I think I can sleep on my own."

"Alright. Take it easy tomorrow. Sleep in and get some rest." Maylon walked away, and Grant sat up.

The nurse arrived and helped Grant to his feet. Grant stood nearly a foot taller than him, but the man was strong. He escorted Grant to his quarters and helped him into bed.

On his way out of the bedroom, he turned out the light and said, "Goodnight, Doctor."

Grant closed his eyes and feigned a yawn. "Good night." Grant's eyes opened again once the man was gone. It had taken all his effort just to walk down the corridors and stand up straight in the turbolift. His legs had felt like jelly. Now that he was lying still, he could think again. But his mind was still quite cloudy.

He had collapsed at dinner, the doctor had said. What dinner? He couldn't remember having eaten. Ah, but his son was there, his little boy. He remembered that. No, it wasn't a boy. It was the doctor from the station. He was grown, a doctor.

Grant swelled with pride. His son, a doctor like himself. Perhaps the boy had remembered him and followed in his footsteps. Grant let his eyelids drop and rested happily. He would go to his son in the morning. Then he could end his years of torment.

But sleep didn't come, not even after perhaps an hour of waiting. Grant thought of the hypospray. It would help him sleep. No, he decided, he had promised. And why did he need it now that he had found his son? So, though he didn't sleep, he continued on that way, long into the night, dreaming of his boy's life since he'd left him twenty-five years before. It was a good dream.

* * *

Inara walked slowly, waiting for the couple behind her to pass. She was only fifteen meters away from the access panel that would lead to the crawlway. And the crawlway would give her the access she needed. She had a lot of work to do. She didn't turn back to see who was behind her, but she could hear their voices and their muted laughter. _Come on_, she thought. Only thirty feet away. But now they were just behind her. She pretended to check an address on the piece of paper she had in her hand, glancing at the doors she passed to see if they matched.

And then they were past. They were Bajorans, she could see now. A man and a woman. The woman clung to the man's arm and from time to time laid her head on his shoulder. Inara envied her. She had time for such frivolity and romance. Inara had no such time. She had vowed that she would not seek such personal happiness until all her planet was free. She had been tempted occasionally, but her duty always won out.

The man and woman rounded the corner ahead of her, and Inara stopped to listen for footsteps. The corridor was silent. She quickly crossed the last few meters to the panel. She looked over her shoulder to each side, and then, after deciding that it was all clear, she knelt and removed the panel. She had had much practice and become quite adept at entering such crawlways, so she was in and closing the hatch in a matter of seconds.

Turning around quietly in the small space was always a bit harder, but then, she wasn't in such a hurry as when she had a chance of being seen. She could deal much better with the possibility of being heard. One can make oneself silent, but invisibility is more difficult.

She was facing the wrong direction, and the bag on her shoulders didn't help. She slipped the bag off her shoulders, unclipped the handle and wrapped it around her waist, clipping it again to the bag. Then she twisted around until her feet faced the panel that lead to the corridor. Before moving forward, she stopped to look at the time. She had five hours and sixteen minutes to complete her mission. She had a lot of work to do, and she still had a long way to crawl.

She needed to be nearer to the center of the station, but she hadn't dared to enter the crawlways any farther in. The risk would have been far too great. Instead she had chose to enter from the habitat ring. Shifting the bag on her waist, she set off down the crawlway.

* * *

Odo had become a tray. That had been quite easy. Inanimate objects were the easiest to do. It was the humanoid form that he had trouble with. The contours of the nose, the shape of the eyelashes, the curves of the ears, not to mention fingerprints and correctly defined knuckles. These were exhausting and difficult. When, on occasion, he had tried, he had become so drained of energy that he'd had to spend almost a whole day regenerating. But the simple curves and smooth surfaces of a tray were child's play, a restful break from even the incomplete form he kept as Chief Security Officer of Deep Space Nine.

So for the last hour, he'd been a tray, carted here and there by various Ferengi hands. He'd therefore had a decent view of the entire bar and most of the goings-on in it. As yet he'd seen no sign of the Gidari. He hadn't really expected to. After the murders of the Ferengi waiter and the Gidari crewman, both groups no doubt felt suspicious and wary.

He had heard, however, mention of some Andorian pottery. Quark had been telling the truth after all, to a certain extent. And it was from Quark himself that Odo was hearing about it now. Quark had brought Odo, loaded down with five glasses and a bottle, to a table in a dark corner of the upper floor of the bar.

"How can I be sure it's authentic?" Quark was asking as he set Odo down on the table. So Quark had lied about who had the pottery, Odo deduced. It wasn't the Gidari.

Four others, of various species, listened intently, leaning forward in their seats. One, who seemed to be the spokesman for the group, spoke up. "I can assure you, it's of exquisite quality and completely authentic." He was a Bolian, and his blue features seemed almost purple in the dim light.

"It would be foolish to purchase merchandise simply on the salesman's word. I'd have to see it."

"I'm afraid that's not possible," the Bolian stated. "We don't have the merchandise."

"Then how can you expect me to buy it?" Quark asked calmly.

"On our word."

Quark held his ground. "So I'm to run the risk of a loss for my investment. You're wasting my time."

"Please, please," the Bolian soothed, holding up his hands. The others waited, silently. "It's simply too dangerous to bring the merchandise to the station. There are too many untrustworthy people. Please, it's only for security reasons. Surely you can understand. Why, only this afternoon, one of your own waiters was murdered right in this bar."

Quark waited. "How can we be sure the merchandise is authentic?"

The Bolian's partners said nothing, as usual. "You have my word." He smiled, trying to appear sincere.

"Your word is not a guarantee of profit."

"Look here, Toad," the Bolian began, his smile melting into a scowl.

"Now there's no need for name-calling." Quark squirmed. "I have to be careful as well. I have to guard against the sale of stolen artifacts."

Stolen. But why had Quark said it so openly? Odo was still suspicious. He would wait.

"Stolen!" the Bolian feigned shock. "Why would you say such a thing. We are insulted."

"I bet," Quark commented. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave before I call Security." He thumped the tray with his fist.

He knew. The Bolian and his companions' attention, and anger, was focussed on Quark, so Odo quietly flattened himself, retaining the dark color of the table. With little effort he slid out from under the glasses and gracefully poured himself over the edge of the table. Once on the ground, he began to mold himself into the convenient form of a mouse, which scurried unnoticed past the feet of the Bolian and into the bag he had carried to the table.

In it he found a manifest which identified the merchandise he was attempting to sell. There was also a report verifying it's authenticity and the details of it's aquisition. It was stolen.

Quark had walked away, leaving Odo in the Bolian's bag. The Bolian and his partners left angrily soon after. Odo stayed in the bag until they had reached the docking ring. Then he began to reform himself into his usual humanoid-like form. The Bolian dropped the bag in surprise and watched as Odo regained his form. Then they all tried to run. Odo stretched out his arms, forming two extra ones, and stopped them all in their tracks. Using another appendage, he tapped his comm badge and ordered Security to come and take the Bolian and his friends into custody on the charge of attempting to sell stolen merchandise.

* * *

Ensign Tsingras was lying in his bed with his arms crossed behind his head. He weighed his options after the day's events. He could stay. He'd come to the attention of his commander. He was now involved in the murder investigations. But--and this was important--it didn't necessarily mean that anything would be better tomorrow. He would still just be a lowly ensign and probably assigned to the same dead-end assignments. With his training he could get a good job back home. And he'd be appreciated there.

He hadn't had time to fully decide the issue when a blue flash lit up his dark quarters. When the light subsided, three Gidari stood around his bed. They wore red cloaks, not the ordinary gray, and their hands were stuck into their sleeves.

Tsingras froze. Every muscle in his body was paralyzed by fear. Every muscle except his heart, which beat fast and pounded hard in his chest. "What do you want?" he forced himself to ask.

They didn't answer but began to chant in a language Tsingras had never heard. _Security_, he thought, as if thinking was enough to make them come. Since he was in bed, he wasn't wearing his comm badge. He could see it. It lay on the dresser next to a chronometer. 0043. There was a communications panel near his bed. He wanted to reach out for it, but his arm refused to move. _I'm quitting_, he decided, _I'm definitely quitting_.

The three red Gidari continued their chant, and Tsingras mustered the courage to move his arm toward the table beside his bed. His heart felt like it would burst through his ribs. His arm moved, just a little, and Tsingras found that it was easy. He moved it more. But before he could make it to the table, a powerful hand gripped on his arm so swiftly and strongly that Tsingras thought it would break. The Gidari forced his arm to his side and held it down on the bed.

Another hand grasped his leg, and the Gidari on his left took his other limbs in hand. Any words of protest were stolen from Tsingras by sheer terror. The third Gidari, continuing the chant, moved toward the head of the bed.

"Please," Tsingras pleaded. Tears began to form in his eyes. "Please. . . ." But he didn't even know what to ask. He couldn't think.

The third Gidari removed his hands from his sleeves and produced an object that Tsingras could not recognize. With his left hand the Gidari pushed Tsingras's forehead down on the bed, forcing it back so that his neck was exposed. Tsingras couldn't see well from that position, but he could make out the movement of the Gidari's right hand toward his throat.

His hand moved quickly, and the device clamped onto Tsingras's neck and bit into his trachea. Pain and heat pierced his throat, but he couldn't scream. His voice had been stolen. He thought he would die then, but he found he could still breath. His breath came in short pants, and his heart screamed warnings in his chest at every beat.

The Gidari's right hand moved again, back to his cloak and then back toward Tsingras. His left hand still applied the pressure to his forehead, so that his neck ached from the device and the strain to raise his head. He couldn't fight the overwhelming urge to see what was happening, even though his mind told him to die, just die. Let it end.

A soft hiss sounded by his ear, and a chill filled his body from the side of his neck down. He shuddered, and his teeth began to chatter in his head. He felt dizzy, and he could no longer feel the bed beneath him. He could only see the ceiling. The Gidari at his head chanted louder now, with the others joining in at intervals. The pain in his neck began to fade, and Tsingras dared to hope again that all would be well if he could just wait it out.

His stomach began to turn, and his muscles felt like rubber, useless and sickly. His heart beat jerkily in his chest in an irregular rhythm that ironically matched the chant of his assailants. The chill disappeared only to be replaced by heat, a deep searing heat that blistered his wounded throat and burned the backs of his eyes. Still his stomach churned, and his lungs sucked in fire with every breath.

And then came the pain. Pain unlike anything he'd ever felt or imagined. Tsingras tried again to scream, but there was no sound, only the chanting of the Gidari. The other two had joined in then, and their voices sang in monotone with the rhythm of his heart. Tsingras's muscles tightened and jerked, but the Gidari held him tightly to the bed. His fingers opened and closed, clenching the blanket he could no longer feel. Tears streamed from his eyes, pouring over the side of his face into his ears. It could have been molten lava, for even the tears caused him agony.

And still it went on. He wasn't dead. _Please God_, he cried silently, mouthing the words. _Please let me die. Make it stop. Let it end. Please. _The chanting filled his ears and echoed in his head, a brother to the pain.

After what seemed an eternity, Tsingras lay still. Only his mouth moved to carry his prayers to heaven, and his whole torso jerked with the deliberate beat of his heart. His eyes pleaded with the ceiling to end the pain. And the chants in his ears grew more faint and gradually slowed to match his heart.

The Gidari removed their hands from his body, but Tsingras could no longer move. His head lolled to one side, and in his fading sight, Tsingras watched as the Gidari removed their hoods. _You're beautiful_, he thought, and it was the last thought he could muster. The chant was over, and Tsingras was dead.

The head Gidari pulled the device from Tsingras's neck, and the Gidari silently spread out in his quarters. The one nearest the dresser reset the chronometer there to read 0000 and joined the others in their search. In a few minutes the blue flash again lit up the room and the Gidari were gone.


	5. Chapter Five

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Five**

Ensign Karl Jones sauntered down the corridor with satisfaction. It was, for him, the weekend. He'd drawn a rather unfortunate shift in Security for the last three weeks, working from 2100 to 0300. But now he had three days off before moving up to the "day" shift. He planned to spend at least one of those days in bed.

Jones stopped in front of his door and waited for it to open. It never had worked right, but Jones and his roommate didn't bother to worry about it. It wouldn't have been high on the station's repair list anyway. After a few seconds the door slid open smoothly.

It was dark inside, but Jones knew that his roommate would be sleeping. He always woke up when the door opened though, so Jones whispered into the darkness, "It's just me, Justin." Without turning on a light, he stepped into the bedroom.

There was no answer from Justin, and Jones wondered if he hadn't come home yet. But as his eyes began to adjust to the darkness, he could vaguely see Justin's form on his bed. _He's still asleep_, he thought, and he took special care to be quiet as he undressed. His own bed lay at the other side of the room, and he couldn't wait to get into it and start his vacation.

Jones changed into a robe and headed for the bathroom for a quick sonic shower before he began his hibernation. His eye caught the chronometer on the wall and he stopped. "Computer," he said, "what is the exact time?"

"The time is 03:13:31."

"Then why does the chronometer say 0105?" he asked without realizing that the computer would think he was still addressing it.

"Unknown."

"Thank you," Jones said in irritation. "That's all." It was strange. The computer generally ran the chronometers. They could only be reset manually, unless the Bajorans had been messing with the computer again. He left the bathroom and returned to the bedroom to check the chronometer there. It said the same thing: 0105. Then he remembered. Justin had a watch, an old-fashioned wind-up wristwatch that his parents had given him for Christmas last year.

Jones opened the top left drawer of Justin's dresser and fished the watch out. He looked at the face. Both hands pointed to the one. _Maybe the computer's wrong_, he thought. But he wouldn't have been relieved from duty until 0300. It just didn't make sense. Heading for the bathroom again, he stopped to pick up his comm badge. He waited for the door to shut behind him so he wouldn't wake Justin and called Ops.

"Ops," came the answer.

"I'm having problems with the chronometers in my quarters," he said. "What time do yours say up there?"

"You could ask the computer for the time, Ensign." The woman's voice sounded annoyed.

_Must be Bajoran_. "I checked that. I want to make sure the computer hasn't been tampered with again."

"We've received no other reports of malfunctionings tonight. It's 0317. Does that help?"

"No," Jones answered. "That's what I was worried about. Someone's reset all our clocks."

"I assume you have double quarters?"

Jones was thinking, and he only half paid attention to the voice in Ops. "Yes."

"Well, maybe your roommate was playing a joke on you."

"I'd better go check on him," Jones said. He knit his brow in confusion. "He wouldn't have been up that late. Jones out."

He returned to the bedroom. Justin was still lying in his bed. He hadn't moved since he'd seen him before. Jones's eyes had now fully adjusted, and he could make out that Justin's eyes were open.

"LIGHTS!" he shouted and ran to his roommate's bed. Justin didn't move, and his eyes stared blankly at where Jones was standing. He wore an expression of wonder frozen on his motionless face. His eyes were tear-stained, and there was blood on the blanket beneath his neck.

Jones slapped his comm badge. "Medical emergency! Chamber 326 habitat level H2." He felt on his roommate's wrist for a pulse, and when he felt nothing he put his ear to his roommate's chest. Nothing. Justin was dead. Jones fell back onto the floor in shock and sat there, staring at his roommate's opened eyes.

* * *

_The large wooden door opened, and Dr. Grant stood on the other side. He looked down and his eyes grew wide when he saw the visitor. "It's you!" he said. He stepped outside, looking fearfully behind him into the house, and slammed the door. "What are you doing here?"_

"I live here," Julian answered. "Don't you know me? I'm your son."

Grant ignored his response. He became very angry. "I know who you are!" Grant accused. "I won't let you hurt my family. I won't let you. Go away before I call for Security."

"But I live here," Julian repeated. "You can't call Security."

But the door slammed shut again and Grant was gone. Julian turned away, and walked toward the cemetery near the old Holy Trinity Church. He found his mother's grave easily. She had a beautiful headstone. "Beloved Wife and Mother. We'll Remember Her Always," the inscription read.

He knelt down beside the grave. "Hello, Mum," he said. He was surprised at how grown-up his voice sounded. He looked down at his hands. They were grown up too. He was wearing a Starfleet uniform. His mind returned to his mother. "I miss you. Everything's gone wrong."

"Get away from there!" an old man screamed. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"

Bashir stood and turned to see who had yelled at him. An old man was running across the cemetery to where he stood. He looked slightly familiar. "I'm just visiting," Bashir replied, innocently.

"You have no right here," the old man held. "Who are you?" His voice shook with age, and his wrinkled eyes stared at Bashir suspiciously from beneath his white eyebrows.

"I'm Julian." Bashir was confused at the man's anger. Who was he? "This is my mother's grave."

The old man turned red. He grew furious. "How dare you say something like that? You're not my daughter's son." He grabbed Bashir by the wrist, and Bashir was surprised at the old man's grip. His other hand jabbed out, pointing to the next grave on the right. "That's my grandson."

"It's a lie," Bashir tried to tell him. But he wouldn't listen.

"I don't know who you are, but I'm taking you to Security." He started to pull him away from the cemetery.

"Please, Grand-dad, wait," Bashir tried to remove the man's hand from his wrist. But the old man was unusually strong.

The old man released his grip and then smacked Bashir across the face. His voice was younger when he spoke. "Medical emergency! Chamber 326 habitat level H2."

Julian Bashir opened his eyes and slapped the communications panel beside his bed. "I'm on my way." He pulled his outer uniform on over his pajamas. Then he grabbed the medkit he kept in his quarters for such emergencies and was out the door at a run.

He arrived at level H2, chamber 326 within minutes, finding the quarters where the call had originated. But he almost ran into the door when it didn't open for him. He was just about to override the security lock when the door slid open. No one was in the front room, which was dark. He could see a light on to his left.

"In here," a quiet voice said.

Bashir followed the voice and the light and entered the bedroom. One young man sat on the floor in his robe, staring at another young man on one of the beds. The one on the bed didn't move, and his eyes were open. He recognized him from the Infirmary. It was Ensign Tsingras.

Bashir walked quickly to the bed. "What happened?" he asked as he checked for a pulse. When he didn't find one, he pulled out his tricorder. No neural activity. It was official. The ensign was dead, certified so at 0323.

The other young man hadn't answered. Bashir closed Tsingras's eyes and pulled the bottom of the blanket up to cover his face. Then he turned to Tsingras's roommate. He knelt down to be at the young man's level. "What's your name?"

The man didn't look away from the body.

"Look at me," Bashir said a little more forcefully. "That's an order."

The man turned his head to look at the doctor.

"That's better." Bashir's voice was soft again. "What's your name?"

"Jones, sir. Ensign Karl Jones, Security."

"Good. Karl, did you call Security?"

Jones looked stricken. His eyes widened in fear. "I forgot!"

"That's alright," Bashir said. "Calm down. I'll call them." Then he tapped his comm badge and called Security. He sighed and tapped it again. "Bashir to Sisko."

There was a short delay before the commander answered. "What is it, Doctor?" His voice was still a little groggy from sleep. He sounded annoyed.

"I'm sorry to wake you up, sir. But I believe we have another murder. Security is on the way, but I thought you should know."

"Where are you?" Sisko was awake now, and his tone reflected his awareness and concern.

"Chamber 326, habitat level H2."

"I'll be right there. Sisko out."

Bashir turned back to the ensign. "Let's get you off the floor." He helped the young man to his feet, and they went to the living room, away from the body of Jones's roommate. Then Bashir went to the replicator and ordered a cup of tea with sugar.

Just as he was carrying the tea back to the young man, the lights went out, plunging the quarters into darkness. He tapped his comm badge with his free hand. "Bashir to Ops."

There was no answer. Bashir thought that it must be the Bajorans again. The viewports helped to add some light from the stars, and Bashir's eyes adjusted quickly. Jones was lying curled up on the couch when Bashir reached him. He looked tired. Bashir sat him up and had him drink the tea. While he was drinking, Bashir went back to the bedroom to examine the body, turning sideways to slip through the half-open door.

He couldn't see much in the darkness. But his tricorder still functioned properly, and he began to scan the body. There were four puncture wounds on the neck surrounding a larger wound that pierced the trachea and lacerated the vocal cords. And there were concentrations of a foreign substance in every cell of Tsingras's body. The largest concentrations were in the vicinity of the heart and in the bloodstream. The tricorder could identify part of the substance which seemed to be a compound of nearly fifteen different chemicals. Three of which were unknown. But even discounting these three, the remainder was sufficient to prove fatal in a matter of hours.

But even more strange was that the internal organs of Tsingras's torso were not there. Bashir had never seen anything like it. There were no longer any cavities in the torso, nor a heart, stomach, intestines, lungs, etc. Something was there, an unidentifiable mass. Bashir wished for his biobeds and diagnostic computer, but of course, they would be down like the rest of the station.

Bashir felt that now it might take the others some time to reach them, so when he was finished examining the victim, he decided to try and question the only witness. Jones had finished the tea and seemed much more alert. His eyebrows were pulled down over his eyes in thought. Bashir sat down beside him. "Tell me what happened." he said, setting the tricorder to record what the ensign said.

"I was on duty until 0300," Jones began and told the doctor everything that he'd done since coming back to his quarters. He told how he'd seen his roommate in the dark and thought he was asleep. And he told about the inconsistencies of the chronometers and Justin's wind-up watch. "Somebody had to set all the clocks wrong." He started to talk faster as he arrived in the story at the death of his friend. "So I came back to Justin and turned on the lights. I could see his eyes were open then, so I called you. I checked his pulse, but. . . . Why would anyone want to kill Justin? He was a nice guy."

"I don't know," Bashir answered. And then he thought about the clocks. Perhaps he could determine the time of death. "When did you call Ops?"

"At 0317," he answered and then continued, "and the computer had said 0313 when I asked, but the chronometers and Justin's watch said 0105."

"So if someone reset them," Bashir said slowly, thinking aloud, "that would have been at . . . 0222." He addressed the ensign again. "Then what did you do?"

"I sat down and waited for you to come. I didn't touch anything after that as it could all be evidence."

* * *

Grant tossed and turned on his bed. He honestly wanted the sleep now that wouldn't come. He just couldn't get comfortable, and his head had begun to ache. His body was shivering though he wasn't cold. In fact he felt rather hot. He turned over again, closing his eyes tight, and tried to force his mind into the area of dreams. But the closer he got the more he remembered his son's--Bashir's--aloofness and hostility. He sat up angrily and reached for the table beside his bed. The drawer slipped open easily, but his hands searched in vain for the hypospray. It was gone. Dr. Maylon must have taken it.

"Lights!" he ordered and nothing happened. He waited for a moment and called again, more tentatively, "Lights?" Still nothing. Grant cursed under his breath and got up from the bed. His legs were still shaky, but he could stand. The stars filtered dim light through the viewport, and he headed toward the dresser on the other side of the room. Opening the middle drawer on the left-hand side, he brushed aside the clothes. He couldn't see into the drawer, but his hands knew the familiar feel of a hypospray.

Forgetting the malfunctioning lights and the doctor's warning against the drug, Grant stumbled back to his bed. He pressed the hypospray against his neck and then slipped it beneath his mattress. Then he dropped himself back onto his bed and closed his eyes, letting the blackness sweep over him.

* * *

Liian moved cautiously counting his steps. He'd practiced them earlier in the night before Taleyn had pulled the station's computers down. _Sixty-four straight and then turn right_. The Promenade received little light from the stars that shone in through the oval viewports on the second floor.

_Fifty-nine, sixty. _Liian had decided on the Cardassian's clothes shop. He felt that if anyone deserved a bombing it was a Cardassian. The others didn't belong there, but most of them sincerely meant no harm. Liian held the bomb in his hand. It was small and heavy, but he could feel the power of the Prophets in its smooth cool surface. _Sixty-four. _

Liian turned right and counted again, this time to thirty-three. And then he was at the door. Unlike the other doors on the station, this one opened easily. Taleyn had seen to that. In appearance, it would seem that every electric or computerized function on the station had fallen. But in reality a few were still running though they wouldn't register on any monitors. One of these had been the transporter that had beamed her aboard the _Ranger_. Another kept the life-support systems running and another had recalled the extra Security back to the security office. Still others allowed her colleagues to carry out their tasks.

The shop was bathed in total darkness. The little light from the upstairs viewports couldn't penetrate past the corridor. Liian pulled a small, cylindrical flashlight from a pocket in his tunic and stepped forward. Clothes hung on humanoid-shaped stands, displaying Garak's apparent skill at tailoring. In the back was a counter and some curtained booths for trying on his wares.

Liian set the flashlight down on the counter so that it faced the booths. Checking the setting on the bomb, he moved forward. The bomb, once armed, would go off in twenty minutes, time enough for him to get back to his quarters without being seen. There would be few people out at this time of night, and all others were stuck behind doors that would only open manually. Liian chose the middle curtain and pulled it back quickly. The sound of the rings sliding on the rods above seemed terribly loud in the silent station.

The light behind him cast his shadow onto the wall in the back of the booth between the shadows of the curtains. It made him look taller and thinner, and Liian wished that his true stature was more along those lines. He wasn't fat, just stocky, and he wasn't terribly short. He was, he supposed, just average. He'd always wanted to be something more than that.

He placed the bomb on the wall, even with his shadow's shoulders, and was just about to activate the arming switch when he saw the shadow curtains move. Another shadow now joined his on the wall. Liian froze. The shadow lacked a clearly defined head. It was hooded. One of its arms moved and disappeared into its body.

When it returned again, the unmistakable shadow of a knife had appeared at the end of it. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," the shadow spoke. Then the whole shadow grew more defined on the wall and melted with his own as the person behind him stepped forward.

Sensing in an instant that his life was truly in danger, Liian spun with the bomb still in his hand. His attacker was taken by surprise as the bomb smacked into his gray-hooded face. The knife scraped weakly against Liian's arm, but the man didn't lose his grip on his weapon. Liian did. The bomb fell clattering to the floor. He grabbed for the gloved hand with the knife and caught on to the man's wrist with both hands.

He saw a flash of black. The next thing he knew, he was tumbling to the ground, and his knee was filled with pain. But he did not release his hold on the man's arm and pulled his adversary down with him to the floor. They had moved out of the booth, and Liian came very close to hitting his head on the counter. The knife came down quite near his shoulder, but Liian forced it away from him.

The man got to his knees first. Liian's knee wasn't working properly, and his kneecap stung with the effort. Using his free hand, the man hit Liian hard against the face with his fist. Liian tasted the blood in his mouth where he'd bitten into his lip. But before the man could repeat the blow, Liian pulled his good knee up into the man's ribs hard and repeated it before the man could react. At the same time he tightened his grip on the man's wrist, hoping to cut off the blood supply to his hand. The third blow with his knee took his assailant's breath away, but instead of letting go of the knife, he threw it about six feet past the counter and Liian's head.

Liian let go of the man's arm and instantly brought his whole leg up. Getting a foot on the man's chest, he sent him sprawling back into the booth. Liian turned and pulled himself along the floor hoping to reach the knife before his attacker regained his footing. He wasn't so lucky. His whole leg burst into pain again as a heavy weight fell upon it from the back.

Instinctively, Liian cried out and moved his hand in the direction of his aching knee. But the man, who was kneeling on the back of Liian's knees, snatched up his arm and twisted it onto his back so that Liian could feel the ends of his own close-cropped hair. Liian bit his lip to keep from crying out again and tasted more blood in his mouth. He tried to move, to force the man off of him, but the man was out of reach.

"You terrorists sure do put up a fight," the man said, panting from exertion. His tone was patronizing. "But don't you think perhaps I'd come prepared?"

Screaming with the effort Liian shifted his weight with all his strength, causing his attacker to lose his balance once more. The weight slid off Liian's knee, and he moved forward again, stretching out his free arm for the knife that just might save him if only he could reach it. His fingers brushed against the warm ribbed surface of the handle, but then his breath was forcefully ripped from his lungs. The man had thrown himself bodily onto Liian's back, still holding Liian's left arm behind him and tightening his grip on it there.

Liian stretched his other arm toward the knife, biting back the pain in his opposite shoulder. He had it, and he smiled despite the situation he was in. But even then he heard a slight whirring sound in his left ear, and something hot pressed into his neck. His breath stopped in his throat, and his fingers froze on the knife.

The whirring raised in pitch, and Liian felt the heat reach up past his ear, cutting off the sound. Still the heat moved forward, and Liian's fingers relaxed their grip on the knife. The heat jerked in his head, and a last breath escaped from his lungs. When the man released his arm, Liian lay still.

* * *

The whirring stopped, and the man stood up beside the body. He walked to where the knife lay in the boy's hand and pulled it from his fingers. He knelt down again at Liian's head and turned it so that he had a clearer view of the boy's neck. But the indirect light from the flashlight was insufficient to see. Standing up again he retrieved the light from the counter, and, holding it between his teeth, he aimed it just below Liian's left ear.

He placed the tip of the knife at just the spot where the laser had entered and turned it so that it would match the direction the laser had taken to the boy's brain. When he felt he had the knife positioned just right, he pulled it swiftly toward him, forcing it into the boy's neck. He left it there, took a piece of folded paper from his cloak, and threw it down beside the body. The doors swished open again, and he was gone.

* * *

Julian Bashir covered his mouth as he yawned. Jones was asleep on the couch, and Bashir was waiting for the commander and Security to come and open the door. He'd tried it earlier, but it wouldn't budge. He wouldn't have left anyway. The communications and lights were still out as well. In fact the only thing that did work was the tricorder and Tsingras's wind-up watch that indeed did show the wrong time. Bashir sat in a chair at the dining table and waited. The only sound was that of Jones's breathing.

Suddenly there was a flash of light from the bedroom. It was an eerie light, but beautiful with an aqua-blue tint. It faded leaving the sound of a low chant. Bashir stood quietly and stole toward the door. It stood frozen half-closed, and Bashir peeked around the edge of it to see inside the room.

Three Gidari stood around Tsingras's bed, chanting slowly in a language Bashir could not understand. Without the computer there was no instant translation, but he set his tricorder to record it just the same. Bashir couldn't see into the room from where he was standing, so he peeked around the door and crossed the open area when he was sure the Gidari couldn't see him. The room behind him was still as dark as pitch. That would help to hide him.

The Gidari's hands were raised, and they were dressed in red cloaks. A blue light had begun to emanate from beneath the blanket that covered the top half of Tsingras's body. Tsingras began to move, or rather, something inside him began to move. One of the Gidari stepped forward brandishing a knife. He pulled back the blanket that covered the body, throwing it onto the floor. He cut away Tsingras's nightshirt, exposing his glowing torso. Gently, and with the skill of a surgeon, he made an incision from Tsingras's throat to his navel. There was no blood.

The Gidari stood back, and all three lowered their hoods. Bashir gasped from behind the door, then froze in fear that they had heard. He was certain he couldn't be seen from his spot behind the door. He continued to watch.

Their skin was the same blue tint as the light he had seen and which still emanated from Tsingras's form. Their hair was silver and shined in the light. The one with the knife had longer hair than the others, and Bashir could now see that it was a female.

She was beautiful, and she looked toward the doorway. Her skin was smooth and her face narrow. Her eyes were a disconcerting solid white, but that didn't detract from her beauty. She turned back to the body, apparently satisfied that there was no threat. Her silver hair was put up elegantly in a cascade of braids and weaves.

She replaced the knife in her cloak and removed her gloves to reveal long slender fingers. She raised her arms, crossing them at the forearm with her fingers arching back to meet at the fingernails. The others imitated her movements with their still gloved hands and heads raised toward the ceiling. "Rhek!" they barked in unison, and a small hand appeared from the slit in Tsingras's torso, followed by a small voice that cried out in the silence.

The woman stepped forward again as the small Gidari struggled to free itself from Tsingras's remains. When it caught sight of the other Gidari, its cries ceased and it reached out toward the woman. She uncrossed her arms and pulled the small one from the body. It was larger than a human baby, resembling more a child of a year or two than a newborn. It's was identical to the others in every way except for the glow of it's skin and the shortness of it's stubbly silver hair. Long sinewy threads from its stomach and legs connected it to the corpse on the bed.

The woman held it aloft for a moment, chanting in a low voice that would hardly reveal her femininity. One of the attending Gidari stepped forward, producing a small blanket from beneath his own cloak. This he wrapped around the back of the young Gidari. He took the child from the woman's arms, still holding it up. The middle Gidari still stood at the end of the bed, chanting with his arms raised in the crossed position.

The woman took the knife again and raised it to the ceiling, one hand on the handle and one, opened flat, supporting the blade. The child's white eyes grew wide in fear as the knife moved toward him, and he cried out as the sinews were cut, releasing him from his former host. Small bits of bright blue fluid dripped from his legs and stomach. The fluid lost its glow as it fell to the bed, and gradually the child ceased to glow as well. The room was again bathed in darkness.

Watching from the door, Bashir struggled to follow the movements of the Gidari. He squinted into the darkness and stared as the attendant wrapped the child more fully in the blanket, covering his head as well. Then the attendant handed him to the Gidari who had stood, arms crossed, at the end of the bed.

The woman, reaching into her cloak once again, produced a weapon. A red line of heat and light shot out toward Tsingras's remains, which glowed red for a second before disappearing. Again the blue light flashed in the room, shining out the door behind Bashir to where Jones lay asleep on the couch. When the light faded, the Gidari were gone.

Bashir sat down, leaning back on the half-closed door and checked to see if the tricorder had recorded everything. But the tricorder refused to work. The only thing that showed on its display was the blue light of the Gidari transporter. Everything that had transpired in the bedroom was unreachable. Nothing he did changed the display on the screen. It was useless, like everything else on the station.

Jones was still sleeping. Bashir could hear him snoring. Standing up, Bashir slipped through the door to the bedroom. He used the malfunctioning tricorder's display for a light source. Bashir looked around the room. There was no evidence of the Gidari's presence. The only trace that remained of Ensign Justin Tsingras was the scorched sheets on his bed.

* * *

An explosion rang through the corridors of the habitat ring. The charge, set behind the main door of a Starfleet officer's quarters, had been strong enough to tear the door loose and send it crashing into the wall across the hall. The quarters had actually been empty. The family who lived there was on Earth visiting relatives. But the bomb had a higher purpose than murder. It was meant as a messenger. Inara Taleyn materialized in her quarters to see Targo Hern sitting on her bed. The old man's wrinkled eyes looked worried.

"What are you doing here?" Inara asked. "We shouldn't be together when they find out about all this."

"But Liian isn't back yet," the old man protested. "There's been only one explosion. Liian's bomb has not gone off."

"Where is he?" Inara asked, trying to control her panic.

"I don't know. He didn't say."

"Yours went off?"

"Yes," Targo confirmed. "It's burning as we speak."

"Maybe he's just late," Inara said. She was trying to convince herself more than the old man. Liian was new to all this, if he was captured. . . . "They're going to be looking for us now. If he's out running around. . . ." She let the thought trail off, knowing that Targo knew the risks.

"We got a call from Kob." The old man spoke quietly.

Inara froze. "What did he say?" Her voice was urgent.

"The Elders urged us to devote our whole hearts to the Prophets."

Inara sat down beside him on the bed, and they both sat in silence for a few moments. Inara was worried. Liian was the only family she had left. And he was devoted; he was just young. He loved the Prophets as much as she did.

Targo changed the subject. "Did your mission succeed?"

"No problem," she answered, but she felt hollow. "It'll take them half a day to get the station running again, and the program is buried so far in the _Ranger_'s systems that they'll never find it until it's too late."

* * *

Sisko stood back holding the light as the security officers worked at opening the door. Another murder. There had been two already, and still no real clue as to who the murderer was. And the Bajorans weren't helping any. Of course, they could be the murderers. But the possibility that they weren't worried Sisko more. That meant there was still more than one mystery to solve.

"Who's there?" Someone asked from behind the door. The voice was stern and threatening, but Sisko assumed that it was the person who had reported the murder in the first place. One of the security officers yelled back an answer.

A light appeared in the corridor, and all the security officers stopped and pulled out their phasers. But the others saw the threat and called out that they were medical personnel. Security went back to opening the door, and the two med-techs arrived with an anti-grav stretcher. The door released, and the security officers pushed it back into the wall.

A young man stood there waiting, wearing nothing but a robe. When he saw the commander, he snapped to attention. "Ensign Jones, sir." Ensign Jones looked tired, as if he'd just woken up. Doctor Bashir was waiting behind him. Quite the opposite of Jones, he looked very much awake and about to burst with excitement.

"At ease, Ensign," Sisko said, and the young man relaxed. "What happened?" he asked, looking past the ensign to the doctor.

"We won't need the medical technicians," Bashir said. "Nor the stretcher." The med-techs seemed confused and didn't know whether to turn around and leave or wait.

"Not even for the body?" Major Kira asked from behind. Sisko hadn't expected or heard her. But then Kira took her job very seriously, and he knew better than to be surprised that she'd come.

"There isn't one," the doctor answered. Sisko began to grow frustrated. Bashir liked to draw out a story for the most dramatic reaction. But, Sisko had to admit, the doctor hadn't had much chance to give a straightfoward account. He waved the med-techs away. They obeyed and turned for the door.

"What about Justin?" Ensign Jones asked, and then he clarified for Sisko's benefit, "Ensign Tsingras."

"He's not there," Bashir answered. He was obviously anxious, and he stepped around Jones to face the commander more directly.

Jones was incredulous. "Where'd he go?"

"I'm trying to tell," Bashir sighed.

It was much too early--or too late, depending on how one looked at it--for this sort of thing. "I'm listening." Sisko pulled a chair from the table and sat down.

Kira assigned the security officers to scan the quarters for clues before she, too, pulled a chair from the table. Bashir sat down on the couch. "Tsingras has been destroyed. There's nothing left."

Jones, who had still been standing, flopped onto the couch. Sisko thought he looked extremely confused, and the doctor wasn't exactly helping. "What happened to him?" the commander asked sternly, trying to help Bashir to focus.

He answered quickly. "It was the Gidari."

Kira sat up straight. "Are you sure? How do you know?"

"I saw them. They came back. I was watching from the door," he said. He leaned forward and held out his tricorder to the major. "I recorded it with the tricorder," he said, "but it doesn't work now."

Kira took the tricorder, and Sisko could see that it's display was frozen in a solid blue light that carried just a hint of green. It was the same color as the effect of the Gidari's transporter.

"Maybe Chief O'Brien can still get something from it," Bashir suggested. He sat back and started again. "Tsingras was poisoned. When I arrived I found traces of a compound in his body. The compound contained about fifteen different chemicals, three of which I'd never seen before. There were also five puncture marks in his neck. I don't know what those were.

"But later," he continued, "when Jones was asleep, they returned. They beamed into the bedroom, and I watched from the door. They seemed to perform some sort of ritual. One of them, a woman--"

Sisko stopped him. "A woman? You _saw _them?"

"Yes," he answered and seemed irritated by the interruption. "They took off the hoods. Anyway, she cut Tsingras's body open, and a . . .," he struggled for the correct word, "child came out. It was glowing blue. To make a long story short, they cut the child loose. The woman destroyed the body with an energy weapon of some sort. Then they beamed back out. That seems to have damaged the tricorder."

"So the question is," Kira concluded, "did the Gidari commit the other murders?"

"That would be too easy," Sisko said, sighing. "Why would they kill one of their own men and a Ferengi waiter, in broad daylight, so to speak?" He stood and crossed his arms as he thought. "We're still missing something."

Everyone was silent for a while as they considered the evidence they had for the other murders. Jones broke the silence. "So why'd they mess with the clocks?"

"Clocks?" Sisko asked, feeling like he'd missed part of the story.

"All the chronometers were reset at approximately 0222," Bashir explained. "It was some kind of ritual. Perhaps that was part of it."

"And when did they come back?" Kira asked.

"Not long before you came," Bashir replied. "I'm sorry. I didn't check the time. What time is it now?"

Kira shrugged. "The lights went out at 0325, and they've been off for about, oh, forty minutes."

"Then I'd say it was about twenty-five minutes after the lights went out."

The security officers returned to report to Kira. One spoke. "There's not much here. One of the beds is burnt, but that's it."

* * *

Kira yawned, but she refused to go back to her quarters to finish the night's interrupted sleep. Besides, she offered as an excuse to herself, by the time she made it back to her quarters, it would be morning. It had taken her nearly an hour just to get to Ops. Every door had to be opened manually, and the turbolifts wouldn't work. But O'Brien, too, had been wrested from bed and was now on the job. Kira wanted to catch the people who were doing this. But until at least some of the systems were back online, she'd have little chance of doing anything. But, at least with the computers down, she didn't have to be diplomatic to anxious ship captains.

O'Brien had found that some systems were still up. Life-support and environmental systems were still functioning as were some general safety back-up systems to protect the integrity of the station. He found evidence that some other systems were up, but he couldn't trace them. Getting the central computer online became his first priority, followed by the security array along with doors, lights, and communication. If they had the sensors they could find the origin of this latest interference.

Kira was anxious for those sensors. She felt that those other systems would point the way to the perpetrators. They would have found it just as hard to operate with doors that wouldn't open. That's why Kira's guess was that those systems were doors.

As she sat in front of a black console in Ops, surrounded by a few well placed palm beacons, she was reminded of the station under Cardassian rule. They had kept the lights low. It gave an eerie, unwelcome feeling to the station, a foreboding that seeped into the bones. At that time, she was the terrorist, the Bajoran resistance fighter, dedicated to ridding her planet of the off-worlders who were plundering it and killing her people.

_Targo Kob_. That was her only link so far. He had bought the coupling that allowed the radicals to access the computer systems. She searched her memory for the name. But she could not remember anyone with that name or description from her own involvement with the resistance. She grew frustrated. There had to be a link between Targo Kob and the Bajorans on this station.

At that moment a single light of an aqua color appeared on her console. Without some of the others, it was still quite useless, but it was a triumph none the less. O'Brien's head popped up from the lower level of the engineering stations. "I've got to have some coffee," he announced and climbed the ladder to the main level.

"Well, you can't have it until you get the replicators back online," Kira said. "How's it coming?"

"I've about got it," O'Brien replied as he pulled up a stool beside her. "Maybe another hour or two and we'll have the central computer up. But I've been thinking."

O'Brien's conspiratorial tone drew her in. "What about?"

"About how we can catch 'em. I've had to fight with this here computer ever since I arrived, but now that I feel I've gotten control of it, I don't like someone else messing with it. It's hard enough to deal with on normal days. And I'm getting real tired of being woken up in the middle of the night to fix it. So I've been thinking. What if we set a trap for them? I can rig a program to tag any peripheral device that tries to tamper with its systems. Then we just track down that device."

Now Kira was interested. "But if they discover they're tagged, they'll just dump the evidence somewhere."

"Then we just won't let them know. We'll let them take the computer offline. They'll think they're safe. But when we get it back, we show up on their doorstep."

"Sounds like a good idea, Chief," Kira said, but without much excitement. "At least, it's the only idea we've got right now. But it won't do us any good if the computer's not up to begin with."

"Right." O'Brien was still cheerful, and he slapped the console as he stood up. He disappeared again below the rails that surrounded the lower level. Kira found herself craving a cup of coffee, too.

* * *

By eight in the morning it had become clear that a bomb had exploded in the habitat ring, and the station had been put on yellow alert. Fortunately, no one had been hurt, but no safety features had been enacted to quench the fire that destroyed everything in the quarters of Ensign Sara Finley and her family. Their neighbors had tried all night to call for help, but they had had to wait until the communications system was restored before the station's crew could react. The _Ranger_'s systems had come up on their own, but not without another warning against defiling the Celestial Temple. They then sent some engineers to help get the station back online.

* * *

The Infirmary was now brightly lit, and Julian Bashir was slouched in his chair over a cup of Tarkalian tea and a still dark console. His medical tricorder lay before him, displaying the fatal compound found in Tsingras's blood. By using a second tricorder, O'Brien had managed to retrieve some of the earlier information Bashir had collected. The Gidari ritual, however, was gone.

Bashir was looking for a solid bit of evidence to trace the Gidari to the killing. Sisko had suggested, and he readily agreed, that telling the Gidari that they were seen unhooded was not the best way to confront them about the murder. Bashir did not want to end up like Tsingras, but he was quite frustrated at being limited to a tricorder for his investigations.

The blood left on the bed contained no traces of the compound that had killed Tsingras. From his previous examination of the body, Bashir knew that the blood had come from the subject's neck. The neck wounds had been inflicted prior to the injection of the compound. By studying the known chemicals of the compound separately and the reactions they'd have in a human body, Bashir was able to determine more closely how Tsingras died. It didn't look pleasant.

The combination of the chemicals would have produced high fever and low body temperatures at different times. None of the chemicals caused unconsciousness or even any anesthetic effect at all. And the mutation of the internal organs assured that Tsingras's death was quite painful. Since the vocal cords had been cut, Bashir assumed the punctures in the neck had been made to keep Tsingras from screaming. It had taken him over one hour to die.

One of the three unknown substances was organic. That much he could tell. Bashir was convinced that to make a new Gidari from a human they'd at the very least need genetic material from a Gidari. That, if he could prove it, would definitely link the Gidari to the killing without mentioning that he saw them firsthand. But where was he to get a sample of Gidari genetic material? All the information he'd gotten from the Gidari corpse had been erased from the computer and given to the Gidari captain. The body itself had been transported to the _Gindarin_, leaving not a trace behind on the biobed.

Then he remembered Tsingras. He'd had a residue on his uniform. "Nurse Jabara!" he called, raising his voice to be heard above the clatter in the room. He stood and waited for her to come.

"Yes, Doctor," a young woman answered, stepping around technicians to reach him. Her eyes were small, as if half-closed in fatigue. None of them had had much sleep.

Bashir lowered his voice. "When the Gidari body was transported here, do you remember the ensign that came with it?"

"Yes," she answered, but she looked confused. "I couldn't possibly forget that smell."

Bashir nodded. "He changed clothes. What happened to his uniform?"

She lowered her eyes and bit her bottom lip. "I'm sorry," she said, not meeting his eyes. "I know you said to burn it. But we couldn't do that, and the disposal wasn't working. I thought I'd just do it when it got fixed--"

Bashir grabbed her shoulders so suddenly that she stopped her explanation and looked up at him in fear. "I could kiss you," he said, smiling broadly. "Where is it?"

She was shocked and didn't answer right off. "I . . . I put it in a container so it wouldn't smell. Should I go get it?" she asked uncertainly.

"Yes, yes, go and get it." Bashir released her and walked to the door. All station personnel were on duty now. Some who had no duties to perform were helping put the station's systems back together. Others were to act as messengers until the internal communications system was back online. It was proving rather tricky.

Several crewmen stood in the corridor talking together, and Bashir called one of them over. "Find Commander Sisko, and tell him that I've got something."

"Yes sir," the ensign said. Then he turned and ran down the corridor to the turbolift.

When Bashir turned back inside the Infirmary, Nurse Jabara was waiting and holding a white container. "You're not going to open it, are you?" she asked, turning up her nose in anticipation.

"I most assuredly am," Bashir answered, still grinning. "But you don't have to stay."

She looked relieved and sighed. She handed him the container and then hurried out of the room. Bashir placed the container on his useless console and opened it, holding his breath. The entire room groaned as the smell wafted into the air. Bashir carefully lifted a fold to reveal the blackish-blue substance that caused the smell and quickly took a sampling he could analyze with his tricorder. He dropped the uniform and closed the container tight to the relief of all the technicians.

"What the hell was that?" one of them asked.

Bashir released his breath. "Language, language," he scolded playfully. He had it, and it matched. The Gidari had injected some of the dead Gidari's genetic material into Tsingras's body along with the other substances in order to produce something between a child and a clone of Harglin Nastroff. He still couldn't identify the two other substances, but it wasn't necessary. The genetic material could only have been provided by the Gidari themselves. That was the evidence he'd needed.

It didn't take long for Sisko to arrive from Ops. He was frowning when he arrived. Bashir hoped it was because of the smell that had not yet fully dissipated. It was rather awful, he admitted to himself.

"You've found something, Doctor?" Sisko asked.

"Look at this," Bashir said, showing the commander the tricorder readout. "This is a sample of the unknown organic substance found in Tsingras's body." He pressed a button, and a second matching structure was displayed beside the first.

"And this," he said proudly, "is a sample from the residue of the dead Gidari left behind on Tsingras's uniform. It hadn't been destroyed after all."

Sisko seemed satisfied, but his expression actually fell. "Good job. Now I've got to talk to the Gidari. Mind if I borrow this?" he asked, pointing to the tricorder.

"Of course not." Bashir handed him the device. Sisko turned to leave. Bashir was glad, again, that he was just the doctor. Accusing the Gidari of a murder was not something to look forward to. "Good luck, sir."

A young Bajoran officer nearly ran into the commander as she ran toward the Infirmary. Sisko stopped. "Doctor," she said, breathing heavily. "There's been another murder."

"Another one?" Bashir turned back into the Infirmary and grabbed his medkit, checking to make sure that it still contained a medical tricorder.

"Where?" Sisko asked.

"The Cardassian's shop," she answered. "It's not him, though."

Bashir caught a bit of disappointment in her voice and felt disgust. To continue to harbor such hatred. . . . Then he felt ashamed. Did he have the same hatred inside himself?

They all three ran toward the shop together. There was a crowd of Bajoran civilians outside the shop. Garak was there, too. Security officers stood beside him. Bashir hoped they didn't suspect him. Spy or no spy, Garak wouldn't kill someone. It would be too obvious. But as they got closer, he could see that the security officers were protecting Garak as they took his statement. It must be, Bashir assumed, a Bajoran.

Odo was waiting inside the shop, standing next to the body of a young Bajoran male. He lay facedown on the floor, one hand outstretched, his face frozen in shock and pain. The ribbed handle of a knife protruded from the boy's neck. The other arm was twisted on his back. One leg lay at peculiar angle. There had obviously been a struggle.

Bashir knelt and began to examine the victim, but he listened to Odo and the commander behind him. "We found a bomb behind the counter. It hadn't been armed," Odo was saying. "This note was beside the body."

"It's Bajoran?" Sisko asked.

"Yes." Odo took the paper back from the commander. "'Radical,'" he read, "'We'll not allow you to succeed in ruining our future.'"

"So you think Bajorans did this?" Sisko was surprised.

"Only if they killed the Gidari crewman," Bashir interrupted. "This is just like the knife I saw last night with the Gidari."

"You're sure?"

Bashir looked up at his commander and nodded. "My guess is it's the same knife that killed the Ferengi. If Bajorans killed him," he suggested, "then it would've had to have been the radicals. But," he indicated the man on the floor, "why would they kill one of their own?" He stood.

"So we're back where we started," Sisko concluded with disappointment. "Who killed the Ferengi?"

"We may have something more now," Bashir stated, turning the victim's head.

"In what way?" Odo asked, skeptically. Bashir thought Odo always seemed skeptical of him.

"I don't think the knife killed him," Bashir explained, pointing to the boy's right cheekbone. A trickle of blood had dried on his cheek. The cut that produced it was barely even noticeable. "This cut was made from something else. It wouldn't reach, and it wouldn't have made so clean a cut. The blade of the knife is only five inches long. There's damage to the brain reaching as far as nine inches. But also there was a struggle. Hopefully then, the murderer left something behind besides that note."

"Ops to Sisko." It was O'Brien's voice.

"Sisko, here. Am I supposed to take this as a sign that you've restored internal communications?"

"Yes, sir. And the security array as well. We've got some ideas on our Bajoran friends."

"I'm on my way, Chief," the commander said. "Sisko out." He addressed the security chief. "Finish up here, and then meet me in Ops." He turned toward the door, but stopped. "Doctor, you'll keep me informed on this?"

"Of course," Bashir answered and then called for a stretcher as Sisko left the shop.

When Bashir reached the Infirmary, he was met by the familiar glow of blue and beige lights on black consoles. Irregular geometric shapes filled the display screens as technicians ran test scans and diagnostics. The medical computers were back up.

* * *

Dax took a deep breath as she waited for the Gidari captain to answer the communication. She knew Benjamin Sisko well from her previous host, Curzon Dax. She knew the tension he was under, even if few others would recognize the set of his jaw and the stern focus of his eyes. The Gidari were still basically an unknown. They saw to that, and it worked to their advantage. It was very intimidating.

The captain of the _Gindarin _appeared on the main viewscreen in front of a black background. His gray hood covered his head down past his chin, and Dax wondered how they could possibly see under those things. He didn't speak.

"Captain," Sisko began, and Dax's stomach tightened just a little. She was working on the computer, trying to get the science station back on line. But she listened to the conversation. "There was a murder here last night," Sisko was saying, "and by the evidence, we believe that Gidari carried it out." His voice was strong and even.

"What murder? Why would we murder anyone?" The Gidari captain's voice matched Sisko's evenness, but was gentler, calmer, unusual for someone denying a murder charge.

"Because one of your men was murdered on this station. One of our crewmen was poisoned with a compound containing Gidari genetic material. No one else would have access to that."

Captain Nardek said nothing for a few seconds. "Your doctor turned over all records from Harglin Nastrof. Or so he said. How then could you identify any genetic material as Gidari?"

"That is irrelevant. You or members of your crew are being accused of murder. That is relevant. But I'll tell you anyway." Sisko's manner suggested that it made no difference how they'd identified the material. "Ensign Tsingras, the officer who discovered your crewman's body, had some residue from Mr. Nastrof on his uniform. He had orders to destroy the uniform, but they were not carried out due to malfunctioning equipment."

There was no reply from Nardek, and Dax looked up to see a blank viewscreen. A few moments later it was replaced by a slimmer Gidari in a red cloak and hood. "Ensign Tsingras fulfilled our most sacred ritual of Nin-Rhek." The voice was distinctly higher in pitch. It was a woman. "The matter is over."

"The matter is not over," Sisko retorted. "An innocent man has been killed. . . ."

"I will not speak to you!" The woman's voice rose in intensity while lowering in pitch. "I am the Keeper of Rhek, the Protector of Life itself. I do not answer to you." The screen went blank again.


	6. Chapter Six

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Six**

Kira waited while the computer loaded the requested information from the provisional government. It was slow, but getting faster. O'Brien had been working on the computer almost non-stop from early in the morning. Everything was working now, just not as well as it should. The sensors had revealed little since the doors became active at roughly the same time. They had been able to trace the open doors backward from Garak's shop to one turbolift that was operational for only one hour.

Kira stood in front of a black screen. So far, she'd not had much luck. The security forces on the planet had picked up Targo Kob, but he'd died within thirty minutes. He had poisoned himself. Kira turned her attention to other things as she waited. "So what did he say?" she asked. There was only one other person in Ops at the moment, so she didn't bother to lower her voice.

"He got angry with me," Dax replied. "I don't think I had ever seen him angry like that. It shocked me. He was defensive and, well, mean. He said he didn't need my help or my concern."

"I think you're both right," Kira stated. "He is lying about Grant, but you're worrying about him too much. He's nearly thirty years old. He's old enough to live his own life. Besides," she said, "if you leave it alone, he'll probably come to you and then you won't have to worry anymore."

Just then her screen lit up brilliantly with words and a colorful picture of the young Bajoran they had found dead in Garak's shop that morning. "Got it!" she exclaimed.

Dax came over and stood beside Kira. "Fin Liian," Kira read aloud. She paraphrased the rest. "Age 16. Parents are dead. Last known residence: the Kendra Valley. No wonder he became a terrorist."

Dax nodded, and Kira continued. "And we have him registered here as Byela Liian living on Chamber 273 habitat level H3. He came to the station just two weeks ago. Well, let's inform his roommate of his death and see who we come up with."

She pressed a few colored lights on the console and a new face appeared on her screen. She read out the information there. "Fareed Taleyn. Age twenty-six. Blond hair, brown eyes. Arrived on the station four months ago. What's she doing living with a sixteen-year-old boy?"

"Are they related?" Dax suggested.

"Could be. They arrived separately, three and a half months apart. So they registered separately. Let's see." Kira tapped a few more colored panels on her console and pulled up more information. "Fareed requested living quarters. When Fin arrived, she requested that he share her quarters. They could be related. They've obviously known each other. If they are related, perhaps she's in on the attacks. We'll see when we talk to her."

* * *

The autopsy had taken much longer than the previous two. The victim was a sixteen-year-old boy with no known family. There was no one to object to a thorough examination, and the examination yielded a great deal more useful evidence than that of either the Ferengi or the Gidari. To start with, the body was about six and a half hours old. He had died approximately twenty minutes after the computer was shut down.

This time there had been a struggle, and Bashir was then able to more accurately piece together the events that led to the boy's death. The victim's face was bruised and his lip cut. His right knee was bruised front and back. Its tendons were stretched suggesting hyper-extension, which would explain the peculiar angle it had been lying in. The left knee was also bruised, but less seriously so. His back also bore several large bruises and one other, in the same position as the boy's twisted arm.

From that evidence, Bashir determined that the boy had been hit in the face and perhaps knocked to the ground by a blow to the knee. He had fought back, bruising his own knee in the process. But in the end, he had ended up face down with his arm twisted behind him and pushed down hard on his back. The murderer had perhaps been kneeling on the boy's back.

But the knife wound from that position was not likely. It would have been brought down onto the victim's neck. As it was, it was inserted into the brain, under the skull, from a point just below and in front of the left ear. The knife's wide blade had made a long wide wound such as one would expect from a stabbing. But the direction of the would--diagonally up and to the right--and the force that would have needed to be applied suggested that the murderer had been positioned above the victim's head and had pulled the knife back toward himself. The boy had already been dead.

By closer examination of the knife wound, Bashir found a triangular swath of burned flesh and brain matter. The burn-line reached into the brain at roughly the same direction as the knife but about four inches farther. At one edge of the burn, a razor-thin, perfectly straight line of scorched matter was evident, stretching the entire nine inches and to the laceration on the boy's right temple. But from the point at the neck the burn widened and ended in an arc of 2.7 inches.

Bashir thought for a moment, puzzling over the evidence. But it only took him a minute. The answer lay just within his reach. Literally. Laser scalpel. A laser scalpel would have cut precisely, and, at a high enough intensity, would have burned the flesh and brain as it did so. It could be limited to a given length, in this case, nine inches. This explained the nine-inch line at the edge of the burn. The widening of the burn suggested that the scalpel was tilted, creating an arc, after insertion. The less serious burn here meant that it was a quick movement, a mere flick of the wrist. The left wrist if the murder was positioned on the victim's back.

Bashir was convinced that there was only one murderer, discounting, of course, Tsingras's death. The Gidari had been strangled, his knife stolen and used to kill the Ferengi. The same knife had then been used in an attempt to disguise the real cause of the Bajoran's death. But there was no real connection between the victims except the circumstances of their murders. There was no known motive. The murderer was, it seemed, a psychopath. But the laser scalpel and the steady hand that had held it, that was even worse. The murderer knew medicine.

Bashir felt betrayed. Medicine was his life, his reason for being. It was a part of him. It disgusted him to think that someone else didn't take it as seriously as himself. Someone else, vowed to uphold its values same as he was, had committed three meaningless murders. Someone else had ended lives he should have been sworn to protect.

The identity of the murderer was still not quite within reach. There were fifteen medical personnel assigned to the station. There were certainly a number on board the _USS Ranger_. There was also others on board the station who were not crew-members who had medical experience and perhaps access to medical equipment. In addition there were possible suspects on the various ships docked at the station.

Further examination of the body and clothes of the victim produced no further evidence. Bashir assumed the murderer was wearing gloves again and possibly the stolen Gidari cloak as well.

It had been discovered that all of the added Security had been recalled from their posts on the Promenade, probably by the Bajorans. The Bajoran terrorists, by interfering, had inadvertently aided in their comrade's death. That is, if they hadn't wanted him dead.

* * *

Inara just couldn't go out. She knew she should. She should not appear to be waiting for news of Liian. It had been a mistake, she decided now--though she'd known it before--to share quarters with him. She'd tapped into Security's computer and knew they'd found him. She knew they had found his real name. Strange that the records on the planet hadn't been changed. They knew he was one of the "radicals" that were attacking the station. And if she were found here, worrying and pacing the floor, she could be linked to his activities and the whole thing could fall apart. If, of course, he hadn't already told them.

At that moment the door chimed to announce visitors. _Security, _she thought, and a wave of panic rushed through her body. Then she laughed. She laughed hard, a laugh that comes from deep inside the spirit. It didn't last long, but it refreshed her, removed the wrinkles from her forehead. Then she answered the door.

Two people stood on the other side of the door. One was a woman, stern and serious, with short red hair. The other was a man, tall and without defined features. He looked like a clay sculpture of a man, and she knew right off who he was. Everyone knew that the head of Security for the station was a shapeshifter. Inara smiled the wide, natural smile that is left over from laughter.

"Fareed Taleyn?" the woman asked.

Inara let her smile fade. The woman's voice was as serious as her expression. _He's dead_, she thought. But she wouldn't let herself feel the pain, not yet. She had to play her part. She filled her mind with confusion, wrinkling her forehead just slightly again. "Yes," she said, and the word was long and drawn out, providing as much a question as an answer. "Please come in." She was smiling again, but this was the smile of a hostess, not the spontaneous smile of laughter.

Inara turned, and the two followed her into her quarters. "Can I get you something to drink?" she asked.

"No, thank you," the woman answered. "Miss Fareed," she began, "I'm Major Kira, and this is Chief of Security Odo." She held out a data padd. "Do you know this man?"

Inara took the padd and looked at the picture. It was Liian, but she felt nothing. She would wait. "Yes," she answered. "He lives here. His name is Fin Liian. Why do you ask?"

The major looked just a little shocked. "Are you sure?" she asked. "Our records contain a different name."

"Yes, I'm sure," Inara stated confidently. "I've known him for nearly six years. Why would he be listed under a different name? Has he done something wrong? Has something happened to him?"

"He's been killed," the shapeshifter spoke. "How did you know him?"

The answer didn't touch her. That would come later, as well. "Killed?" She sat down. "I met him in the camps," she said. "He was so young and confused. His parents had been killed. He had no family. He was stubborn and independent. But I made sure he didn't starve. I guess, I wanted something to take care of. It was important to me then, when it seemed we had control over nothing in our own lives. What happened?"

"We are investigating that now," the woman said. "We can only reveal that information to family."

Inara nodded, but didn't allow the confusion to fall from her countenance. "Can I see him?

"I'm afraid not. We're conducting an autopsy to try to find who did this."

Inara nodded again and stood, handing the data padd back to the major. "Can you tell me," she asked, "if he was one of them?" She carried a hint of naive enthusiasm in the last word.

"One of them?" Major Kira asked as they walked out the door.

"One of the terrorists."

"I can't tell you anything at the moment."

* * *

The turbolift that Dr. Bashir had taken had jerked to a stop once along the way, and he had been greatly relieved when it moved again after only a few seconds. But he stepped off quickly before it had completely stopped level with the floor in Ops. Ops was just as noisy as his Infirmary had been earlier that morning. Engineers in various uniforms were working at nearly every station, trying to repair all the systems and keep them up.

Dax looked up at him and smiled, causing a wave of guilt to flash through Bashir's body for the way he'd treated her the night before. "Is Commander Sisko in?" he asked.

She didn't answer but nodded before returning to her work. Bashir stepped up toward the prefect's office that overlooked the rest of Ops and pressed a pad that should have alerted Sisko to his presence outside the door. But it didn't ring, so he knocked. The door opened.

Sisko sat behind his large desk. Kira and Odo stood in front of it. All looked at him expectantly. "I've got the autopsy report," Bashir said, letting the doors close behind him.

Sisko nodded but held up a hand to tell the doctor to wait.

Kira continued, "Her story checks out. She was a nurse at the Koalin Sin Orphanage that was destroyed during the occupation. All of the children were sent to the mines. She ended up in the camps."

"A nurse?" Bashir asked. "Who?"

Sisko ignored his interruption but his eyes showed his displeasure. "What is she doing on the station?" Sisko asked.

"She's an assistant in a jewelry shop," Odo answered. She has no prior record and is well-recommended by her employer."

Sisko leaned back in his chair. His face was sour. "O'Brien thinks he can tag the terrorists when they connect to the computer."

"Yes," Kira answered. It was their best hope yet in catching the Bajorans. "They shouldn't be able to detect it. We'll have to let them take the computer down, though. And we know they must be residents on the station as Fin Liian was. There was a turbolift operational for one hour last night, and it ran to the habitat ring."

Sisko nodded. "Doctor?" he asked, impatiently.

"The Bajoran wasn't killed by the knife." Bashir handed him a padd. "It was only meant to look that way. He was already dead by then." Bashir took a deep breath and added, "He was killed by a laser scalpel inserted into the brain."

Sisko had been scanning the padd for information, but he looked up at the doctor then. "Whose technology?"

"I can't be sure without seeing the instrument itself."

"None were found at the scene. Is anything missing from the Infirmary?"

Bashir shook his head. But that didn't rule out his own staff. He would not normally have suspected them, but they'd all learned something from Chief O'Brien's former assistant Neela. Religious faith could be a stronger tie than professianalism or even friendship. A scalpel could have been used and replaced. The whole situation made him feel sick. He actually felt guilty. It was as if he'd discovered that a member of his fraternity had committed a horrible crime. Medical personnel, especially doctors, were a fraternity of sorts. They were linked together by the demanding job they did and the commitment to help the sick.

"Could someone have gotten access to medical equipment during the Bajoran attacks on the station?" Sisko pressed.

"No, I don't think so. Except for my staff. The Infirmary is always manned." Bashir realized that he didn't sound very confident. But Kira seemed to agree.

"Even the Infirmary's doors were malfunctioning this morning. Only the terrorists themselves seem to have been able to move about freely during those times."

"And it's unlikely that they would have killed their own man," Sisko agreed, "just before he was about to carry out his duty. So we're looking at medical personnel."

It hurt just the hear it. "Perhaps," Bashir said. "But there's also the possibility of others with prior medical experience."

"Like former nurses," Sisko concluded. "I want a list of everyone with medical experience who has been on this station in the last four days," Sisko said with an air of finality. Kira started to turn for the door.

"It's there," Bashir said, pointing at the padd. Kira returned to the desk. "I've also asked the _Ranger_'s Chief of Security for information on their crew."

"How many people are we talking about?" Kira asked.

"Twenty-six registered as residents or visitors of the station," Bashir answered, "plus those aboard the _Ranger_. Also there are eighteen on the various other ships docked since the first Bajoran attack."

"Well that's narrowed it down at least." Sisko looked down at the padd again.

"I think we can narrow it down a little more," Bashir suggested. "The evidence indicates a left-handed person. And a left-hander also killed the Ferengi with the Gidari's knife and cloak."

"That'll help. We still can't rule out the terrorists," Kira said. "Perhaps they felt the boy couldn't be trusted. By killing him before the bomb went off, and by placing the note at the scene, they could have made him look like the victim of vigilantes."

Sisko nodded without looking up. "Doctor, you could help Security check out these names. Find out who they are, where they got their experience, what their records are, and if they're left-handed." He looked up. "Major, you might want to take a closer look at Miss Fareed. And patch me through to Starfleet Command."

* * *

Maylon stepped lightly through the doors of the sickbay, and Dr. Pynar looked up at him from the terminal where she sat. But Maylon didn't see her. He was deep in thought, and her voice startled him.

"Where did you go for lunch?"

"Uh, Quark's, on the station," he answered. "But I don't know if you can really call it lunch. It's still quite early. Perhaps brunch is a better word. Why do you ask?"

"No reason, I just thought you might find it safer here on the ship," she said, and Maylon knew she was referring to the damage wreaked by the Bajorans on the station during the night.

"Oh, I don't know," Maylon replied. "They were here last night, too, and they've done something. We just don't know what. Maybe they've contaminated our replicators. Who knows?"

Pynar didn't speak for a moment, and Maylon felt that maybe he'd spooked her. "Well," he added, "they could have done the same to the station. And I haven't heard of anyone dying yet. There haven't even been any patients."

Pynar was quiet when she spoke again. "I don't understand why they didn't bomb us last night. We're the ones they warned about their temple."

"Maybe they're still planning it. Or maybe they can't. That was just one bomb last night, and it was too small to do much to us. And we have guards at the airlock."

"They don't do much good, do they? They have to be using transporters to get on and off like they do."

After more silence, Maylon spoke up, "Well, you should go and get something to eat. Don't worry about it. Let Security do that. Just be careful."

Pynar nodded and rose from her chair. "I don't think I'll go to the station though."

Maylon smiled and watched her leave, taking the seat she'd left. He didn't want to tell her what he'd found out from the Ferengi boy. She wouldn't have wanted to hear about the murders. Two more during the night, and one was a terrorist. He'd had a bomb. Some of the Bajorans suspected the Cardassian clothier. But the Ferengi boy's uncle believed otherwise. The boy seemed to put a lot of stock in what his uncle thought.

There was also a rumor that the Gidari had carried out the other murder, by poisoning. Maylon marvelled at the Ferengi's ability to gather such detailed information. And it made him despise them even more. The boy had not seemed overly concerned about the deaths of the two station residents, but was only worried about the money he received for his services. And, no doubt, his access to such information was not wholly of a legal nature. But Maylon didn't ask those questions.

Maylon had looked for the Bajoran woman, Taleyn. Inara Taleyn. She'd lied about her name. _Just like them_, he thought with a smirk. _They're so untrusting, those Bajorans. And untrustworthy_. She hadn't shown up at Quark's during his break. He decided he'd check again in when he was off duty.

The medical computer, as all the others, seemed unaffected by their unwelcome visit the night before. Maylon used the computer to run simulations on the reactions of certain drugs on the systems of different species. Stenacine was first on his list. He'd found Grant's hypospray in the scientist's quarters after his collapse at dinner.

Grant had been one of a team of scientists who had developed it in 2353 as a universal anesthetic. It was quite potent. Undiluted, it was also quite dangerous. It could, with a large dose, effectively shut down the cognitive functions of the human brain in two point seven minutes, inducing a permanent comatose condition and, eventually, death. But given in smaller concentrations, it had proven useful and safe in surgery and as a calming agent for violent mental patients. And it's effects dropped off in efficiency when mixed with other drugs. At seven micrograms, added to the morning medication, an unsuspecting mental patient would fall asleep peacefully in the evening, nearly thirteen hours later.

The dosage and concentrations Grant had last used was enough to induce a dreamless sleep in three and a half minutes. It was harmless . . . if used only once or twice. But from Maylon's examination of Dr. Grant, he could tell that the scientist had become addicted, raising his tolerance level. The last dose had been taken in the afternoon and Grant was awake for dinner. The effects, which should have had a duration of seven hours, had only lasted three. Using this as a guide, Maylon determined that Grant had been using the stenacine for nearly five years.

Stenacine did have side effects for a very small percentage of people, as well, approximately one-tenth of one percent. These people might suffer hallucinations and black outs. One reported case, after being given a dose half the amount of Grant's, had gone to sleep in New York City on Earth. When he awoke, he found himself in a prison in Kansas City, half a continent away, accused of rape and murder.

The door opened, and when Maylon saw who entered, he instinctively arose and stood at attention. "Good morning, Captain," he said. _If this is some kind of inspection _. . ., he thought. Maylon hadn't liked the captain since Gerin had dressed him down his first day on duty for not coming to attention when he entered and for eating while on duty in an empty sickbay. Gerin ran what was commonly called a tight ship, and Maylon didn't relish the idea of spending the next five years with him in the Gamma Quadrant. And Maylon hated the idea that Starfleet had had the audacity to promote an Ekosian to such a high rank, considering the past of his race.

The captain didn't answer but nodded. His eyebrows were drawn together over his eyes and his lips were set tightly. His left hand firmly held his right. But his voice did not reveal his pain. "I think I've broken my hand, Doctor."

Maylon relaxed his stiff posture and led Captain Gerin to one of the biobeds and began to examine his hand. It was indeed broken. There were two fractures, the first right behind the knuckle of his little finger. The side of his hand was badly bruised, too. "How did this happen?" Maylon asked, and added, as an afterthought, "sir."

"I became angry," the captain answered.

"At who?" Maylon's voice was quiet, and he hadn't meant for the captain to hear him. But the captain's eyes raised from his injured hand to meet the doctor's. There was steel in his gaze. Maylon flushed and turned all his attention to his work.

"At the replicator in my office," Gerin replied. "It wasn't working properly and became very annoying."

Maylon looked up. "The replicator? Do you think the Bajorans tampered with it?"

"That is a matter for Engineering to fix and Security to find out. It is not a concern of yours." There was a hard edge in the captain's voice, too. But when he spoke again, his voice was softer. "All other replicators have checked out. You have nothing to worry about."

Maylon nodded and continued his work. When he had set the bones and knitted them back together again, he told the captain to wait and he'd give him something for the pain. A very light dosage would suffice, and his hand would be as good as new in a day or two. "Until then," he said, placing a hypospray to the captain's shoulder, "go easy on that hand."

"Thank you, Doctor," Gerin said as he stood up.

Maylon sighed when he had gone and sat down carefully into his chair. His hand shook just slightly as he reached forward to record the treatment in the Medical Log.

* * *

Commander Sisko stared hard at the communications viewscreen on his desk. "You mean we're just going to let them go?"

"Commander, this is a very delicate situation." Admiral Nechayev stated. The admiral was a stern woman with a strong face and graying hair. "In the first place, it was a religious ritual. We cannot interfere with that."

"Not even when it kills our crewmen?" Sisko interrupted her angrily.

"Secondly," she began again, more firmly, "they are an unknown. We don't know their strengths, their weaknesses, anything about them. Is it worth insulting them and risking a war by trying to put them on trial? And are you willing to risk another member of your crew?"

Sisko was silent.

"Who would you put on trial? The only way you could single anyone out would be to admit that your doctor saw them. If they killed Ensign Tsingras for finding a dead Gidari, what would they do to your doctor for seeing four live ones and their most sacred ritual?"

She didn't wait for Sisko to answer. "We cannot risk a war with an unknown foe at this time. As it is we have the Maquis problem in your area as well as the Romulans and Cardassians."

Her voice softened. "I am sorry about your Ensign. And I don't envy you your duty in informing his family. But the fact remains. The Gidari are not to be prosecuted. Make them leave the station and tell them they are not welcome in Federation territory at this time, if you wish. But let Tsingras go."

Sisko swallowed. "Yes, sir."

"Good. Nechayev out."

The screen went blank, and Sisko leaned back in his chair. He took the baseball from his desk and rolled it in his hands. Then he stood and walked to the door. It opened smoothly before him, but he didn't even notice. "Major," he said and waited for Kira to look up. "Contact Captain Nardek, on screen."

Kira nodded and after a delay of nearly thirty seconds, the Gidari captain's hooded head appeared on the viewscreen.

"Commander," Nardek acknowledged.

"Captain." Sisko tried to keep his voice even, covering up the anger he felt and the shame. "Starfleet Command has decided, in the interest of our continued relations, not to proceed with the investigation of Ensign Tsingras's death."

Nardek did not speak.

"However," Sisko continued, "I will have to insist that your ship leave the station."

"We are not yet prepared to leave. As you said before, 'the matter is not over.' We cannot leave our crewman behind on your station."

Sisko was confused. "What crewman?"

"Harglin Nastrof."

"Mr. Nastrof's remains were returned to you," Sisko returned.

"We cannot leave any part of our crewman behind. There is still the matter of the genetic material. We will leave when we have all of Nastrof's remains and not before." The captain abruptly ended the communication.

Kira had kept silent during the communication, but Sisko could see that she was fuming. "They're just going to let them kill one of your crewmen and fly away like it was nothing?"

Sisko didn't face her. "Major," he snapped, "it is necessary to think of more than just Ensign Tsingras. A conflict with the Gidari is something this station is not ready for and something the Federation is not willing to risk. I have my orders. The Gidari are not to be prosecuted at this time. Please, make sure that Doctor Bashir gets that information." He turned to walk back to the solitude of his office. But he would find no comfort there either. "And get me through on subspace to Tsingras's family."

Kira nodded, and Sisko disappeared behind his office doors. There were also half a dozen calls waiting for him from the ships docked at the station. Sisko wouldn't be in a good mood today.

* * *

Doctor Alexander Grant wrung his hands continually as he walked down the bright corridors of the _Ranger_. His heart raced and sweat dripped into his eyes from his forehead. He almost turned around when he stepped into the gloomy airlock of Deep Space Nine. But there were guards there at the door watching him. Besides, he had decided to go, good or bad. He said, "Good morning," and stepped by as calmly as possible.

He was going to talk to his son. He still half-hoped that he was wrong and that Dr. Bashir was just an antisocial young doctor who felt threatened by Grant's celebrity. He'd checked the adoption records in the morning though, and he knew he was right. The other half of him desparately clung to that and to the idea that his son would forgive him for what he'd done.

Grant got in the turbolift and was about to announce his destination, when he realized he didn't know where Bashir would be. Most likely the sickbay. No, he had called it the Infirmary. "Take me to the Infirmary, please."

The computer's voice calmly replied, "The Infirmary is not a proper destination. Please supply a proper destination."

"Where is the Infirmary?"

"The Infirmary is located on the Promenade."

"Then take me to the Promenade, please." Grant was pleased when the turbolift began to move. It was slower than the lifts on the _Ranger_, and Grant paced the floor as he waited for it to come to a stop. The doors opened on a bright and busy shopping area. He began to walk, not knowing in which direction to find the Infirmary. He passed shop windows lined with jewelry, pottery, and clothes. There were kiosks and restaurants selling everything from Bajoran foods to Klingon. But he didn't find an Infirmary.

Grant had also noticed the presence of security officers, some dressed in the black and gold of Starfleet, others in beige Bajoran uniforms. They stood like statues at intervals of one hundred meters, suspiciously eyeing everyone who crossed their paths. Grant stopped next to one. "In which direction might I find the Infirmary?"

The Bajoran officer looked at him, his steely gaze melting into concern. "Are you sick? Do you need assistance?" he asked.

"No, no. I'm fine," Grant answered, nearly stammering. His nervousness had grown more acute because of the delay. "I just wish to speak to the doctor."

"You don't need any help?" the officer asked. His voice carried suspicion, and Grant grew more nervous, causing more suspicion on the part of the officer.

"No," Grant tried to assure him. "I'm a doctor myself. I merely wish to speak with my colleague."

The officer continued to look at him in a disbelieving way, but then pointed off to the left, in the direction Grant had been going. "It's about seventy meters down on your left."

* * *

Julian Bashir again sat alone in the Infirmary, and he was glad of the quiet there. He had been reading names of medical personnel and medical schools for the last hour, cross-referencing them with criminal records and psychological examinations. He had received the information on the _Ranger_'s crew and added seven more names to his list. So now he had a total of sixty-one names, including members of his own staff. So he had been tying up the subspace lines, now that subspace was fully operational, calling medical schools all over Alpha Quadrant checking credentials.

One had particularly caught his attention for the simple reason that he was so hard to track down. It was a Bajoran man, eighty-eight years of age, named Figin Hern. His records indicated that he had attended, before the Cardassian occupation, a medical school that no longer existed. All records were seemingly irretrievable. But Bashir had managed to find the president of the medical school, an old man nearly 120 years old. And the old man had had books. Books!

They were real paper and binding books, like one would see in museums back on Earth, ones like Bashir's mother had read to him so long ago. These books had been buried under the old man's house. After the liberation, he had them dug up again in the hopes of re-opening the school. They were yearbooks containing all the names of all the students of the school. The old man had promised to call back when he'd found Figin's name.

Bashir was about to take a break for lunch when the door opened. He turned to see Dr. Grant standing in the doorway. For a moment, Bashir didn't move. He'd gotten so wrapped up in the murders that he had let himself forget about Grant and the dinner the night before.

"Have I come at a bad time?" Grant asked.

Bashir recovered and took in the man's appearance, remembering the collapse after dinner. Grant's eyes were bloodshot. He was sweating and clutching his hands together. "Are you feeling well?" Bashir asked, ignoring Grant's question. "Did Maylon let you go?"

"Yes," Grant answered. His voice was not the confident, self-assured voice of the Grant that had been at the Replimat the day before. "I'm fine. I . . . I wanted to speak to you."

Warning signals sounded in Bashir's head. "Well, I was about to go--"

"Please," Grant implored. "Please, I need to talk to you. I need to ask for your forgiveness."

Fire flared in Bashir's heart at that. He stood. _Damn right you do_, he thought. But he played dumb, hoping that Grant would give up and leave. "Forgiveness?" he asked, filling his voice with innocence. "You became ill last night. That's nothing that requires forgiveness." He turned away, pretending he had work to do.

Grant looked crest-fallen, but he didn't leave. "Your my son," he blurted out, and the suddenness and directness of the statement took Bashir by surprise.

He didn't know how to respond. He wanted to deny it.

But Grant didn't bother to wait for a response. He stepped out of the doorway, letting the door close behind him. "I know who you are. I know why you've behaved so badly towards me. You're my son. You were born in November, twenty-nine years ago. It was a rainy day. Your name is Julian Grant."

Bashir turned around slowly. There was acid in his quiet, even voice when he spoke. "My name," he said, "is Julian Bashir."

"I know who you are!" Grant repeated. "I'm your father."

"You are not my father," Julian seethed, giving in. "You stopped being my father twenty-five years ago."

"I know." Grant let his eyes fall toward the ground in shame. "What I did was wrong. I know that now. But I can explain."

"Explain?! You took my life away, and you can explain?!"

"I didn't!" Grant denied. "You've had a good life. I saw to that, and then your new family did. You went to the best schools. You were adopted by good people. You became a doctor."

"But it shouldn't have happened. I should have had your family. I should have grown up with my brother and sister. I should have known my grandparents. You took all that away."

"You were so young, you can't remember what it was like. Your mother died--"

"I remember," Julian said, interrupting Grant, "my mother died trying to save me. And you threw away what she gave her life for."

"If she hadn't gone back. . . ." Grant stopped mid-sentence. His face flushed and he turned away. He didn't speak for a moment. When he turned back to face Bashir, his voice was quieter. "I . . . I couldn't think right after it happened. I was at the hospital with you, and I just decided--I don't know why--to tell everyone that you'd died, too."

But Julian had heard only the first part. "If she hadn't gone back, what?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"If she hadn't gone back, what?" Bashir insisted.

"I didn't mean that," Grant cowered. He stepped back until he bumped into the computer console. His eyes darted from one side to the other, like a trapped animal.

"WHAT?" Julian pressed.

"I'd still have her!" Grant screamed back, but then his eyes dropped to the floor in shame. He lowered his voice again. "The way it stands, I lost you both."

"You blame me for her death?" Julian asked. It was surprising, but then, that made more sense then anything.

"No."

"You do." Bashir was indignant, but he kept his composure. "You blame me."

"I did blame you," Grant explained. "I don't anymore."

"I was four years old. How could you blame me?"

"I just couldn't think straight, not about you. Losing her, I thought I'd lost everything."

"But if I burned to death, that was alright?" Julian retorted, without raising his voice.

"No," Grant replied. "No, it was not alright. I can't explain it to you. When she went back into the house, I just snapped. You were too young to remember, but--"

But he did remember. He remembered too much sometimes. "I remember the pain. I remember your hands squeezing my arms, shaking me. I remember your face, your eyes, the hatred in your voice. I remember everything."

Grant couldn't speak. "How can I say I'm sorry?" he asked finally.

"You can't," Julian answered.

"Please, I . . . I just snapped," Grant pleaded. "After awhile I realized what I'd done, that I'd been wrong. I need your forgiveness. It has been torturing me for years. I can't sleep at night without seeing your mother, without seeing you, without wondering about your life."

"That isn't my fault," Bashir said coldly. "You brought that on yourself."

"If I could change it all, I would," begged Grant. "It was too late, even then. I didn't know where to find you. And--"

"You didn't look hard enough." Bashir accused.

"And," Grant continued. "I couldn't just tell everyone the truth. It hadn't been easy for them either. They thought you had died all those years ago. I thought you'd forget, too. You were so young."

"I have an exceptional memory," Bashir replied. He wanted to end this. "You want my forgiveness? Then you tell my brother and sister what you've done. You give me back my family. Give me back my life." He knew it was too much to ask. And he wasn't even sure he could forgive Grant if he did tell George and Elizabeth the truth.

"I can't do that." Grant was nearly crying. "It took years for George to recover from the shock completely. He has a family now. And Elizabeth? Elizabeth's never known you. I can't tell her now."

"Then I can't forgive you."

"Please," Grant implored, "you can't ask that of me. I'd lose everything."

"I already have," Bashir contended. "You want my forgiveness, so you can have your happy life back. But I get nothing. The same as before. Well, the answer's no. You're a selfish old man, and I hope it tortures you forever."

"I beg you, don't do this to me, please."

"To you?" Julian was incredulous, but it felt good to watch Grant cower weakly. "I'm doing this to you?"

"Please, you're my son. I love you."

"You don't even know me!"

"I'm your father." Grant was practically grovelling.

"You're not!," Bashir argued.

"I am. I was there the day you were born. I was there when you first learned to walk, when you said your first word. I was so proud of you. I'm proud of you now."

"You have no right!" Bashir thundered, and the weight and power of his voice froze even Grant's breath. Everything seemed to rush out of him in a torrent. "You have no right to be proud of me. Everything I've done has been without you. I grew up without you. I graduated from school without you. I got into the Academy without you and medical school without you. And I became a doctor without you. Those are _my _accomplishments. They are mine! You have no claim to them! They are mine! You gave all that up a long time ago.

"I waited for you," he continued. "I waited for you for weeks to come and get me at the hospital or to come visit me at school. I waited for years. But you didn't come. You never came."

"I wanted to," Grant said meekly.

"That's not enough!"

"It's all I have," Grant insisted. "You loved me before. Isn't there any of that left?"

"Anything I felt for you died the day you buried me!" Julian accused, pointing at Grant. He was consumed with anger, with hatred, with everything he'd ever felt about Grant. His whole body shook with it.

"Y-you know?" Grant stuttered. Grant shook for other reasons. He was broken, merely a shell of himself. He had become a weak, old man. "I'm sorry," was all he could manage to say, but even then it was just a whisper.

"You're a liar," Bashir pressed. "You always were. I want nothing more to do with you. Get out of my Infirmary."

Grant stood for a moment, visibly searching for words, but he could no longer face Bashir's anger. He turned to go, his shoulders hunched. In his haste to leave he ran into Jake Sisko and nearly knocked the boy down.

Julian sat down, buried his face in his hands, and tried to calm himself down. His heart pounded in his chest, and he could feel the heat in his face. He took a deep breath and then stood up again to face the boy. Jake stood in the doorway with his eyes wide and questioning.

"What's wrong, Jake?"

"Uh, nothing," Jake answered as he glanced back out the door. "I was supposed to come back. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine. I'm just tired. You were supposed to come back?" Bashir honestly couldn't remember.

"My elbow?" Jake hinted. "The nurse said to come back."

"Oh yes," Bashir said, remembering Jake's cut and Nog's predicament after their adventure in the lower levels. "I'm sorry, Jake. I didn't mean to forget. It's been rather crazy around here. Come sit down, and let's have a look." He led the boy to a biobed.

Jake hopped up and raised his sleeve. Bashir scanned his elbow. "How does it feel?" he asked.

"Fine now," Jake answered. "It kind of hurt last night though when Dad made me do my homework."

Julian let himself chuckle just a little at that. It felt good to smile, to feel his muscles relax a little. "I'll bet. But that was probably writer's cramp. It looks fine."

Jake pulled his sleeve back down and slipped off the biobed. "Who was that man? Was he sick?"

"He was no one," Julian replied. "Don't hang around on the Promenade today, okay? It's not safe."

Jake still looked puzzled but he nodded. When the door opened for him to leave, Julian could see Nog waiting on the other side of the corridor.

* * *

Inara's cheeks were streaked with red and her eyes swollen when Targo Hern came to her door. "You've been crying," he said, stepping inside. There was compassion in his voice. "They've found him?"

Inara's answer was direct. "He's dead." Her tears were gone, but an emptiness remained inside her stomach. It was a familiar feeling. She'd felt it for weeks when she'd lost her parents and for months when she'd lost her brother. Liian's death left her feeling drained and alone. And angry.

Targo did not openly react. His face was carved in stone. He sat down at the table. "Did they examine the body?"

"Why? Are you afraid they'd find something?" Inara was aware of the accusing tone she used, but she couldn't stop it. "Yes, they examined the body. And they've found his real name. How did they find that?"

Inara hoped to see some reaction in the old man. Offended dignity, defensive surprise, anything that would prove to her that he didn't have something to do with Liian's death. But his face remained calm, his eyes held hers steadily. "I don't know," he answered. "The records should have been changed."

"Well, they weren't. That could have jeopardized everything." She turned away from him, escaping his searching gaze.

"Your living with him could've jeopardized everything," Targo argued.

"I know that." She matched his quietness in her reply.

"We still have work to do," he said. It was a reminder, as if she'd forgotten.

She could no longer hold back. She turned to face him. "I have given my life to our cause, everything I have! Do the Elders doubt my devotion as well?"

"Of course not. But we cannot let our grief delay our operations. Liian is in the hands of the Prophets. We must look forward, not back."

Inara took a deep breath and sat down across from him at the table. "Of course," she said. "I'm sorry." _But_, she thought, _if you caused his death, I'll send you to the Prophets to meet him._

* * *

"Ops to Doctor Bashir." Kira's voice interupted Julian's thoughts. To try to put his mind back on his job he'd been sorting out the right-handed and left-handed people on his list of suspects. Left-handers were a minority, which left him with only seventeen names, including two of his med-techs, Nurse Jabara, Maylon, Doctor Pynar, Doctor Grant, and Figin Hern among others.

"Bashir here."

"There's a communication for you from the planet from Doctor Jara Rune."

"Thank you." In a moment the old man's face appeared on Bashir's communications viewscreen. "Hello Doctor Jara," he said, smiling politely. "Thank you for calling."

"Well, I'm afraid I may not be able to help you much." The old man's voice was still strong and youthful. "There's been no Figin Hern."

That peaked Julian's interest. Figin Hern must have falsified his records. The old man was opening one of the old books. It's cover was torn and dusty, and the pages were threatening to fall out.

"I did find a picture though," Dr. Jara continued. He held up the book. "Does this look like your man? I realize he'd be much older now."

"Just a moment," Bashir said and reached for the console of his computer. He pulled up the current picture of Figin Hern from the station's records. "What year is that book from?" he asked.

"Sixty-four years ago."

Bashir turned away to work at the computer, changing the picture from the files to erase the last sixty-four years. The computer was slow still, but Bashir was glad that it was at least cooperating. "I'm sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor," he said, turning back to the viewscreen. "I'm running a simulation to see if the pictures match. Our computer is a bit slow today."

"Task complete," the computer spoke. The picture that remained on the computer screen was of a young Bajoran man in his early twenties. He had brown hair and dark eyes. And he matched almost perfectly the picture in the yearbook that Dr. Jara held up.

"That's him." Bashir said. "I'm sure of it. But if his name isn't Figin Hern, what is it?"

"Targo Hern. He was one of our best students that year. But he didn't graduate. He left school quite suddenly without giving an explanation."

"Interesting. Thank you for your help, Doctor Jara. I wish you luck in re-opening your school. If you ever need some assistance, don't hesitate to let me know."

"Thank you, Doctor." With that the viewscreen went blank.

Bashir sat back confused. His stomach growled, and he decided he'd put off lunch for long enough. He turned off the computer, told the nurse on duty that he was leaving, and headed for the door.

The crowds on the Promenade were finally beginning to thin after four murders and the bomb in the habitat ring. Those that were out were Bajorans, who considered themselves safe from the terrorists, and angry ships' crews trying to keep themselves occupied. The Replimat, too, was much less crowded than at lunch the day before. Julian Bashir was still agitated from his confrontation with Dr. Grant, and confused about Mr. Figin Hern, but he was thankful to see Kira and O'Brien sitting at one of the tables.

"May I join you?" he asked and was surprised at how drained his voice sounded.

O'Brien nodded, and Bashir sat down. "You sound tired."

Bashir sighed. "It's been a long day." A waiter appeared and Bashir ordered half-heartedly.

"Any visits from the Gidari?" Kira inquired playfully.

"Not yet, thank God," Bashir answered. "If they want what's left of Nastrof, I can't give it to them. It was destroyed. But they haven't even called to ask."

"Well, be careful, just the same," Kira said. Then she asked casually, "Any luck with our murder suspects?"

"Well, we're down to seventeen known left-handed suspects," he said. "One was interesting. It seems Byela Liian wasn't the only one to lie about his name."

"Who have you got?" O'Brien asked.

"He was registered as Figin Hern. But when I checked his medical credentials on the planet, we found him under the name Targo Hern."

Kira looked up. "Targo?"

Bashir was surprised at her interest. "Yes," he replied.

Kira turned abruptly away from Bashir and addressed O'Brien. "Targo bought the coupling on the planet," she said. "Targo Kob. Perhaps the two know each other."

"Well, then you need to have a talk with Mr. Figin," O'Brien stated. Both began to rise. "Sorry to abandon you, Julian. I've got to try to catch our computer people."

"I hope I helped," Bashir said. He sighed again when they were gone and stared blankly at his food. He wasn't so terribly hungry. He was lonely. The murders of the last two days and the Bajoran attacks had kept him busy, with little time to think about himself and his problems with Dr. Grant. But when Grant had come to the Infirmary, it had opened up something within him. Now he didn't want to be alone.

* * *

Dr. Trayla Pynar returned from lunch to a quiet sickbay. There were no patients, thankfully, and little of necessity that needed to be done. Maylon was sitting quietly at a computer console running simulations of some sort. He seemed quite absorbed in his work and didn't bother to look up when she entered.

Pynar said nothing and went to her office to sit down. She felt safer here. The Bajorans worried her. She just couldn't understand why they didn't see that the Federation was trying to help them, not occupy them as the Cardassians did. And they'd been on the _Ranger _at least twice. The first time, they left a complicated virus as a calling card. No one knew yet what they had done the second time. That worried her even more.

She was almost afraid to touch anything, especially the computers. She'd even used her tricorder to scan her lunch before she ate it. But it was fine. Everything was fine, it seemed. She also knew that the medical computer had not been connected to the main computer since the virus. So she really had nothing to worry about in sickbay. Perhaps that's why she felt safer there.

Silently saying a short prayer, she turned on the computer and brought up the Medical Log. It indicated that one patient had received treatment during her absence. Opening the file, she was surprised to find Captain Gerin's name. He had come in with a fractured hand. Maylon had treated him, setting and knitting the bones. And he'd given him condrofen for the pain. Maylon was only a year out of Starfleet Medical, but he seemed to have a good grasp of medicine. It was his attitude that kept him from being given more responsibility.

There was something about Maylon that Dr. Pynar just did not understand. But she'd spoken to him often in the last month and decided it must be a conflict of philosophies. Growing up on Ahmossa IV would mean that he was socialized into a different set of values and mores than most members of Starfleet. But the fact that he'd run away from there meant that he'd refuted at least some of those values. It all left him with a mix of philosophies, so to speak. And Pynar and Starfleet Medical were not quite sure where he stood.

He did appear quite dedicated to medicine and the use of it to save lives. The lack of it on Ahmossa IV had angered him the most. His best friend, Maylon had told Pynar, had died of influenza when he was seventeen. Influenza had ceased to be a fatal illness for young people on Earth in the twentieth century. But Ahmossa IV had also been a religious colony, and Maylon, while he didn't subscribe to the religious beliefs of his parents, was not happy with the humanist philosophies of the majority of Starfleet officers.

He was friendly, and yet it seemed like he was always holding something back. He smiled and joked often and spoke with others easily and almost always informally. He had a harder time being formal. That had caused a rub with the captain on his first day on duty.

The captain liked formality. Maylon did not, and he'd complained to her on that first day. Pynar, as she had told him, did not like it at all times either, but she had accepted long ago that on-duty time was not hers to spend as she wished. Rather it was time to serve the ship, and the captain had every right to determine how that ship should be served. Starfleet did not take the promotion of captains lightly.

Maylon had been surprised at her acceptance of Captain Gerin as well. He was fully aware of the history of their two races. The Ekosians, under an experiment of sorts, had been transformed into the image of the Nazis from twentieth century Earth. They had then set out to exterminate her own people, the Zeons. Maylon found it more difficult to realize that it had been a century ago. Besides, by joining Starfleet, all races and species agreed to become part of the same team. Captain Gerin had made that agreement. She, herself, had made that agreement, and Maylon had made it as well.

She could see him working from her desk. He was bent over the console, poring over the data that appeared on his screen. Pynar felt a little sorry for him. He didn't even know yet quite how precarious his situation was. He'd been transferred from his last assignment on a Galaxy class vessel after being repeatedly reprimanded for insubordination. He was not given a choice in his next assignment, and in all reality, a vessel the size of the _Ranger_, generally carried only one doctor. He was an extra.

Pynar did not relish the position she was in. Maylon, one could say, was on probation, and she was his probation officer. Their five-year mission to the Gamma Quadrant was an extended residency, where she was to supervise and check nearly everything he did. And at the end of the five years, or any time in between, she was to decide if his license to practice medicine was to be revoked. She knew how much medicine meant to her, and she didn't want to be the one to tell Maylon he couldn't be a doctor anymore. She was determined, therefore, to help Maylon succeed.


	7. Chapter Seven

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Seven**

Inara Taleyn pulled the computer from its place beneath her bed and entered the station's central computer. She smiled with satisfaction at the ease with which she had access to all the main systems that ran the station. The engineers had just about repaired all the damage she had caused the night before, but no one had found her bug yet. With it, she could control the entire station from her bedroom without being noticed by anyone watching in Ops or Security. She was amused, though she had to admit that she was also impressed, at Chief Miles O'Brien's attempts to tag her. That would only work if she was connected externally as she had been on her first entry.

But now, she was connected by remote to the central computer itself. Her computer was recognized as just another terminal on the station. But her security access was never questioned, and her actions were never disclosed on any other terminal or record. She could, if she chose, cut off life-support to the whole station or shut down the antimatter- containment field generators on the fusion reactors and blow up the station completely. But she wasn't about to do that. That would cost Bajoran lives.

However, she did have other activities in mind. But she was distracted by a message on the screen. It informed her that someone had just requested the computer to record the interrogation of Targo Hern who had been placed under custody twenty minutes before. This initiated quite a different program than anyone in Security had in mind. Inara felt a cold satisfaction along with a pang of remorse. What if Targo was innocent? A signal sounded from the front room. Someone was at the door. She set the computer to record and slipped it back beneath the bed before answering the door.

A middle-aged Bajoran man stood waiting there. "I believe we had plans for dinner," he said.

Inara had never seen him before. "Please," she said, "come in." She was wary, now that Liian had been killed and Security had caught Targo.

"The Elders send their greetings. They comfort you in your loss," he recited.

_So he's Liian's replacement_, she thought. "Who are the Elders?" she asked as innocently as she could muster.

"Targo Dain sends her encouragement." He stood at attention.

_Good enough. _"What's your name?"

"Stirad Vind."

"What's your real name?" she smirked.

"Theel."

"Well, Theel, one last question. Who are you replacing?"

"Byela--or rather, Fin--Liian."

"Well, we'll need another replacement soon enough. Targo Hern's been arrested. Come with me." She led him into the bedroom and produced the computer from under the bed. She pressed a few controls, and her screen changed to show her a view of Targo in a cell being questioned by the woman that had come to inform her of Liian's death. Major Kira Nerys. A member of the resistance once. Now a collaborator with the godless Federation.

"You do know what will happen to him, don't you?" Inara asked coldly. She turned to look at her new colleague. His face was pale, his eyes wide. He didn't answer, but he swallowed hard. _Good, _she thought, _he should know the risks. _

Inara pressed another panel and voices began to emit from the computer's speaker. Targo was speaking. "I don't know why you're keeping me here. I've done nothing wrong. You have no right to arrest me." His words complained but his voice showed no sign of concern. He was calm. He knew the risks as well.

"You haven't been arrested," Major Kira corrected. "You've been detained for questioning. We're concerned about the murders that have been perpetrated on this station in the last two days."

Inara allowed a slight smile to cross her face, knowing that Theel wasn't watching. She had been keeping close tabs on the murder investigation, and she knew that Targo was a suspect.

"I don't know anything about the murders," he asserted.

"Oh, come now, Mr. Figin. Everyone on this station knows about the murders by now. The Gidari was first," she said. "Perhaps you can help me. Who was second?"

"The Ferengi. But my knowing doesn't mean that I have anything to do with them."

"Third?"

"An ensign. The Gidari killed him. Why don't you ask them about the murders?"

"Fourth."

"A Bajoran boy. He was in the Cardassian's shop. Why isn't the Cardassian being detained for 'questioning'?"

"The Bajoran boy was killed with a laser scalpel." Kira's tone was confident. Inara could not see her face, but she could hear the energy in her voice.

Targo said nothing. His face revealed nothing. _Did you do it? _Inara thought to him. She looked at the chronometer at the top right-hand corner of the screen. Nine minutes. Targo was checking the time, too.

"You were educated at the Miris School of Medicine, weren't you? When did you graduate?"

_He didn't_, Inara thought.

"I didn't," Targo answered. "I never graduated."

"It's funny that your name doesn't appear in any of the books as having ever been a student there," Kira countered.

"I wouldn't know why not." Targo spoke slowly, stalling for time. Six minutes. He sat down on the bed near the far wall of the cell.

"I do," Kira said. "Your name is not Figin Hern."

Targo said nothing. Five minutes.

"Why did you lie when you registered for residence on this station?" Kira asked.

Targo remained silent.

"Your name is Targo Hern," Kira stated confidently.

"It is."

"That's better." Kira nodded and took a step closer, crossing her arms across her chest. "Why did you lie?" she demanded.

Targo was silent. He braced his arm on the bed to hold himself upright. His face showed no guilt, no fear, only conviction. He took a deep breath. Four. _Did you do it?_ Inara's thoughts urged. _Come on, tell her. It won't matter now. _

"I could understand you're killing a Gidari and a Ferengi," Kira charged, "but not a Bajoran. Why kill the Bajoran?"

"I didn't kill anyone, Major. And if you think I did, you should charge me properly." Three minutes. Targo's head nodded forward, and he pulled it back up quickly.

Too late, though. Kira had noticed. "What's wrong?" she asked.

"Nothing," Targo answered, and smiled.

Kira raised a panel from the table in the middle of the room and pressed a colored light. She looked back to the door of the cell. Nothing. "Computer, open cell number four."

"Unable to comply," the computer answered.

"Override," she snapped frantically.

"Unable to comply."

Two minutes. Inara screamed at him silently. _Did you do it?! _

"Ops, transport the prisoner in cell number four to the Infirmary."

A woman's voice answered, and Inara mouthed the words along with her. "The transporter isn't functioning."

"Medical emergency in Security!"

A man's voice, "Bashir. I'm on my way."

One minute. _Tell her! _Targo slumped over on the bed.

"To the Prophet's, Major," Targo breathed. He closed his eyes.

A new message appeared on Inara's monitor, cancelling out the picture from Security. "Initial phase, complete. Beginning filtration." Inara thumped her fist down on the bed.

"Like I said," Inara turned to Theel, "we'll need another replacement."

* * *

Julian took a bite of his food and thought about what Grant had said. _He _couldn't sleep at night. It tortured _him_. He wanted forgiveness. Julian was still angry. How many nights had he stayed awake wondering where his father was, or why he'd left him? It had tortured him to see other sons with their loving fathers.

Forgiveness. He didn't know if that was possible even if Grant did tell Elizabeth and George. Grant had done too much. Twenty years ago he could have forgiven him. But not now. He'd missed so much. George had a family. So Julian was an uncle. But he'd never see his nieces or nephews. So that was something else Grant had taken away.

Julian felt alone, and not just because Kira and O'Brien had left the table. "Medical Emergency in Security!" Kira's voice came over the comm line.

Julian slapped his comm badge. "Bashir. I'm on my way." He stood up, abandoning his lunch, and ran down the corridor toward Security. He hit his comm badge again as he ran, "Bashir to Infirmary."

But there was no answer. _Damn_, he thought and changed his course. It would do no good to arrive at an emergency without any medical equipment. Nurse Reyna was on duty and should have answered his call. She could have met him with his med-kit.

He tried the communicator again, but he couldn't speak. His stomach lurched as he felt the floor give way beneath his feet. He caught a vague glimpse of fearful stares from the people on the Promenade, and then a bright blue light filled his eyes. It all happened so quickly that he didn't have time even to ponder what had happened. When the blue light faded he was standing in a dark room. A figure in a red cloak approached from the shadows of one corner, and a near-blinding light appeared above his head.

* * *

"Kira to Bashir!" the major barked. But there was no answer. "Kira to Medical." Nothing.

"Computer," Odo said impatiently, "locate Doctor Bashir."

"Doctor Bashir is not on the station."

Kira and Odo both looked at each other. "Then where is he?" Kira asked. "And what about the others in the Infirmary?"

"I'll find out," Odo said and turned to walk out the door. He waved to the officer standing there to follow him as he went. Behind him, Kira was calling Ops.

"He answered my call not two minutes ago, but now he doesn't answer."

"Could the Bajorans be interfering with communications?" Sisko asked.

"He's not even on the station, unless they've messed with that, too."

A third voice interrupted their conversation. "This is Odo. The Infirmary is empty."

* * *

The red cloak walked toward him, and Dr. Bashir recognized the figure. It was the priestess. "I am the Keeper of Rhek," she said in a low, husky voice, "the Protector of Life. You have that which does not belong to you."

Julian thought for a moment and stood up straighter. He would not show her any fear. The Gidari believed in strength, and that's what he had to project. It didn't help that he kept thinking about what the Gidari had done to Tsingras. "And you have something that doesn't belong to you," he said, hoping that he was right and praying that he was wrong. "Where's my nurse?"

"You may not speak to me in that tone!" the Gidari woman shouted. "I am the Protector of Life of this, the _Gindarin_! And you have what does not belong to you!"

"And I'm the protector of life on Deep Space Nine!" Bashir shouted back. Adrenaline followed the outburst as he convinced himself of the anger in his voice. "Where's my nurse?"

The woman said nothing, but she raised a gloved hand from the sleeve of her cloak. From the corner where she pointed two other red-cloaked figures stepped out, holding Nurse Reyna between them. Her eyes begged him to rescue her. She bit her bottom lip and dug her fingernails into the palms of her hands. She was terrified. She made no sound, and something dark was attached to her neck.

"What have you done to her?" Bashir demanded. "She has nothing to do with any of this."

"We have done nothing to her," the woman said calmly.

Bashir forced his own voice to sound calm as well. "Like you 'did nothing' to Ensign Tsingras? I don't have what you want. It was destroyed."

"You had Gidari genetic material in your possession," the priestess countered.

"I did," Bashir maintained. "And it was supposed to be destroyed after we found Harglin Nastrof, but the disposal wasn't working. It was only after you murdered Ensign Tsingras that I realized we still had genetic material."

"We did not murder Ensign Justin Tsingras," the woman denied. "He fulfilled our most sacred ritual of Nin-Rhek."

"So I've heard." Bashir crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

"Where is the material?" the priestess pressed.

"It has been destroyed," Bashir answered. He would not give in to her. That's what she wanted. He tried not to think what they might do to get him to give in.

"You are lying!" she bellowed. "You are keeping it from us in order to gain information that you are not welcome to."

"I've already gained that information. And we became welcome to it when you destroyed the life of our crewman which _you _were not welcome to."

"We are the Gidari!" the woman roared.

"I don't care who you are," Bashir returned. "You can not just beam onto our station and kill our crew members under guise of a ritual. And you cannot abduct innocent people, either."

"Ensign Tsingras was necessary." She turned away from him. "He was the first person to see Harglin's body. . . ."

She had become frustrated, or she wouldn't have bothered to explain herself. He was getting to her. "No, he wasn't," Bashir contended.

The priestess swung around quickly, so quickly that Bashir caught a glimpse of her blue face and silvery hair beneath the edge of her hood. "Then you!" she hissed.

"Wrong again," Bashir said, allowing a bit of sarcasm to escape him.

"Who?!"

"The one who murdered him, I would think. So you see, you murdered," and he emphasized the word, "an innocent person."

She turned away again. "I want the material!"

"You can't have it," Bashir held. "I don't have it. Our disposals malfunctioned after our computer systems were tampered with. When they were repaired, the material and the uniform on which we found it was destroyed, and happily so. Because, to be quite honest, it stank." He had let his tone grow smug, but it carried force when he spoke again. "Now release my nurse."

Reyna was nearly crouching as she tried to pull away from her captors in a panic. She was crying, and silently mouthing the word "please" over and over again. The two Gidari held her tightly by the wrists, which kept her from crumpling onto the floor. Bashir could hear her fast breathing and worried that she would hyperventilate.

The priestess did not turn back around, and she made no move to order her attendants to release the nurse.

"If you don't believe me about the material, why don't you look for it yourself?" Bashir suggested. "If you have the technology to transport us here, certainly you have the technology to scan for Gidari genetic material on the station. I promise you can have whatever you find."

The woman turned, and Bashir heard a door open and close behind him. "We shall see," she said. "Release her."

The attendants let go of the nurse and she fell to the floor. Bashir stepped toward her, but the two attendants moved to block his path. They held energy weapons in their hands. Two small red dots on his chest proved the accuracy of their aim. Bashir stopped. Behind the two, Bashir could hear Nurse Reyna's uncontrolled breathing. She was hyperventilating.

The priestess was watching him, and he shot her an angry look. She was the liar. They had to have done something to Reyna. She had been a strong young woman, full of fire and determination. But now she was utterly broken. Her arms shook as they braced her against falling completely to the floor.

The door opened again allowing blue light to filter for a second into the dark room. When it closed, only the white circle of light was left to illuminate the six figures in the room. But Bashir wondered if there weren't still more Gidari hiding in the corners, which were still shadowed in darkness. The priestess moved quickly past the two attendants and reached for Reyna's neck. Bashir took another step forward, forgetting the weapons in concern for his nurse.

Another flash of blue light filled Bashir's eyes, and he again felt the sensation that there was no floor beneath his feet. When the light faded he stood in the Infirmary. Nurse Reyna fell to the floor clutching her throat only a few meters away. Blood dripped slowly from beneath her fingers, and her breath gurgled as the blood entered her throat. He ran to her and began to pick her up in his arms. Her whole body was shaking, convulsing, and she tried to push him away.

Julian knelt beside her and wrapped his arms tightly around her, using one hand to cover her wound. He stroked her hair and spoke to her softly. "It's over now. It's alright."

The door opened, allowing Commander Sisko and Odo to enter. Sisko's face was questioning, while Odo's carried no such sign of humanoid emotions. Reyna, who had begun to calm down, saw them and tried again to push away. The commander came closer, and she pushed back again and tried to crawl away.

"Back away!" Julian ordered. He'd apologize later. "Call another nurse."

Sisko obediently backed away and did what he was told. Reyna stopped fighting and instead pulled herself toward Bashir. They were kneeling beside a cabinet, so with one hand, Bashir opened it and withdrew a hypospray. He prepared a sedative and placed it to Reyna's shoulder. After waiting a few seconds for the sedative to begin taking affect, Bashir dragged her up to her feet, still talking to her gently.

He dropped the hypospray to the floor and lifted her up in his arms. She sobbed voicelessly still and held onto him, burying her face against his neck. He carried her to a biobed and laid her down, but she would not release her hold. "Shh," he said, stroking her hair and the side of her face. "It's all over now. Everything will be alright. Shhh."

Julian scanned the readouts on the biobed as he held her. She'd been drugged. The dark object he'd seen on her neck had punctured her trachea and larynx, lacerating her vocal cords. He listened as her breathing became more shallow and even, though the blood still gurgled in her throat. When she was asleep, he gently laid her head down on the pillow. He kept one hand on her neck and reached with the other for a dermal regenerator.

"What happened?" Sisko asked, apparently forgetting that he'd been yelled at by an inferior officer.

"The Gidari," Bashir answered, "They wanted the genetic material." Then he added angrily, "She didn't know anything about it."

Sisko sat down in a chair. "Will she be alright?" Behind him, the door opened and Nurse Jabara entered. She assessed the situation quickly and moved to assist the doctor.

"I don't know." Bashir was being honest. The computer could find no match for the chemical in her system. It could only describe the effects, the most obvious effect being an increased sensation of pain. Bashir just prayed that the sedative he'd given her didn't cause an adverse reaction and cause her condition to deteriorate.

But he was even more concerned at the fact that the dermal regenerator was having no effect on Reyna's wounds. Though she was still bleeding, it was fortunate that the device had not severed any major arteries. "Jabara," he said without looking at the other nurse, "in the lower drawer of that cabinet is a small, white medical kit. Get it, please." He pointed quickly to one of the biobeds on the far wall.

"Yes, Doctor," Jabara replied. She returned seconds later with the kit. Without Bashir's having to say a word, she took over holding the bandage to Reyna's neck, leaving him free to use the kit.

Bashir opened it and, using a surgical clamp, he pulled out a curved needle with a length of surgical thread. He thanked his mother silently for her love of history. It apparently had left a mark on him, and he had studied the history of medical practice for his own interests while in medical school. For centuries, suturing with needle and thread had been used to stop bleeding and close wounds.

Nurse Jabara seemed undaunted by this rather primitive approach, and Bashir assumed that she must have seen or even used such practices during the occupation when more advanced technology was perhaps not available. She assisted him skillfully and covered Reyna's neck with a clean bandage after he had tied off the last stitch.

At this time Reyna's pulse was strong. She was not yet in danger of dying, but, with the unknown drug, he had no way to be sure. The drug was not concentrated in her blood, which complicated things. If it had been in the blood, he could have just filtered it out or given her a transfusion. But the drug had been distributed throughout her body at the cellular level. They would just have to wait it out.

The device attached to her trachea had not hampered her breathing. Her wounds were identical to the ones found on Tsingras's body. It was a bit like a tracheotomy, Bashir decided, but one that would keep the victim quiet. Without vocal cords, no one could hear you scream.

Sisko had waited until it appeared Bashir was finished with the nurse. "Are you alright?" he asked.

Bashir sighed. There was nothing else he could do at this point for Nurse Reyna. He turned toward the commander, leaning against the side of the bed. His hands were sticky with the nurse's blood. It also adorned his uniform where she had clung to him. "Yes," he answered, "but I can't say I wasn't frightened. I finally convinced them to scan the station for material. I guess they were satisfied, because we're here now. What was the emergency? Another murder?"

"Yes and no," Sisko said, sitting down. "Kira was interrogating a suspected terrorist, and he died."

Bashir was just a little shocked. _Just how was Kira interrogating him? _he wondered, but then pushed the thought away. Kira wasn't like that. "How did that happen?" he asked.

"That's what we wanted you for," Odo said in a manner that told Bashir he should have already known the answer.

"Everything locked up," Sisko explained. "We couldn't even beam him out of the cell. I think we can rule out suicide. Someone didn't want him to talk."

A voice on the communications system interrupted them. "Ops to Sisko."

"Sisko," the commander answered.

"The transporter is back online."

"Transport him here," Bashir sighed, "and let's have a look."

* * *

Dr. Alexander Grant had not returned to the laboratory when he had returned to the _Ranger_. He went straight to his quarters and locked the door behind him. His stomach ached from hunger, but he did not eat. The conversation he'd had with Bashir played over and over again in his head. Every word of it stung.

He had known, somewhere in his head, that Julian would not embrace him when he came. But still, the hope had over-powered reason. He had hoped to start again, to put his memories to rest, to be a part of his son's life. He knew now that that was not possible. Julian had named his price, in a way, knowing that it was something Grant could never do. Grant must tell his family the truth. To gain the life he'd missed with one, he'd have to risk the life he'd shared with all of the others.

In his mind he played the scenarios. "What are you saying?" George would say. "Julian never died? You lied? Why? What could make you do that?"

"I couldn't think after your mother died," Grant would say in return, using the same arguments he'd used with Bashir. "You were so young then. You can't remember what it was like."

"I remember." The shock of it began to sink in. The pain returned. "I remember Mum running back into the house and you yelling after her to stop. I remember she threw him out the window and you, you screamed at him, shaking him like a rag doll."

"I never knew my mother," Elizabeth said. Grant did not remember her entering this scene. She was just there. "And I never knew my brother. All those years, you lied to me. All those years when he was my imaginary friend." Her anger began to flare. "All those years when I wrote him letters and left them at his grave! Where was he all those years?"

"I don't know," Grant stammered. "I don't know. At hospital, then at school. He was at school all those years."

"Then who's in his grave?"

"No one," Grant said, trying to make his position better. "It's empty."

"You let me write letters to an empty grave, knowing that he was alive somewhere else?"

"I remember," George joined in, "you never cried. Even at the funeral. You cried at Mum's."

"How could you rob me of my brother?" Elizabeth raged. "How could you look at us and lie like that?"

"I don't know!" Grant cried. "I just did. It just happened around me. I couldn't tell you the truth. You'd hate me."

"Our whole lives from that day," Elizabeth charged, "have been based on a lie! All the pain we felt was a lie! Everything you did was a lie!"

"You made me lie!" George added. "You've made me do the same to my children. How can I tell them they have an uncle now? They don't know anything about him."

"You wouldn't let us talk about him," Elizabeth had grown calm again, thinking back. "You said it was too hard for you to remember him. We obeyed to save you from pain. I had to go to Grandma to ask about him. I didn't want to hurt you."

"I'm sorry!" Grant wailed. "I'm sorry! I can't take it back! I can't change it now! Please, forgive me. Please!"

"Forgive you?!" George asked. "How? How can we possibly forgive you?"

"Family is a part of you." Elizabeth always was a bit philosophical. "It changes the way you grow. You took away a part of us. I've been missing that part of me from before I can remember. But," her voice raised in pitch and intensity, "it would have hurt _you _to speak of it? You robbed me of me."

"Please, I loved you so much," Grant pleaded on his knees. "I poured everything into my life with you. I gave you everything you could need."

"You didn't give me my brother." Elizabeth's voice was even and cold. Her eyes were red, filled with loathing and hatred.

George's were filled with anger. "I can't deal with this." His arms waved hysterically. "I want nothing more to do with you. You are not welcome in my home. _My _children will not be allowed to speak of _you_." He turned his back and walked away.

Grant turned to his daughter, his baby. "Elizabeth." Tears streamed from his eyes. "Please."

"Where can I find him?" she asked quietly.

Hope again filled Grant's heart. She would forgive him. "In Starfleet. On Deep Space Nine."

"You're not my father." Her eyes were stone, staring at him from a stranger's face. "I don't know you."

"No, please!" Grant wailed, doubling over until his face rested on the floor. "Please no!"

* * *

Odo had returned to the security office and his investigations, but Dr. Bashir remained in the Infirmary, still trying to determine how Targo Hern had died. He had washed his hands, but he was still wearing the same uniform with the nurse's blood. Bashir was perplexed. What he did know was that Targo had not committed suicide. Targo had been asphixiated. Targo had absorbed an enzyme identified as hematoglobulinhibitase into his circulatory system, inhihiting the hemoglobin in his blood from carrying oxygen. That the enzyme had been absorbed through the skin was more worrying. There were traces of dimethylsulfoxide, DMSO, the solvent which carried the enzyme. What Dr. Bashir didn't know was how it had been done. The cells in Security were not generally airtight.

"What about emergencies?" Sisko asked after Bashir had reported his findings. "Could the cells be sealed off?"

"Yes," the doctor answered. "In emergencies and in cases where a prisoner requires a different atmosphere, but I would have had to authorize it."

"Major" Sisko said, "I think the Bajorans have been in our computer again. Have Chief O'Brien check out cell number four."

Kira had said nothing. She had followed the arrival of the body of the prisoner into the Infirmary. Julian thought she looked anxious. She nodded and walked out the door. Sisko left too, and Bashir turned his attention back to his nurse, who was also now his patient. Nurse Reyna was still sleeping, and her vital signs were good. Her breathing was regular and her pulse strong. The levels of the drug in her system had dropped by ten percent.

"She's doing better, Doctor," Jabara said. She'd been watching her co-worker carefully from the moment she'd entered the Infirmary when Sisko called for her.

"Yes," Bashir agreed. "I think she'll be fine. We'll try to repair her vocal cords when the effects of the drug wear off. See if you can find a copy of her voice. We want it to match."

"Yes, Doctor." Jabara left to sit at the computer.

But Bashir stayed. He watched Reyna as she slept. Thanks to the sedative, she slept soundly and peacefully. Except for the bandage on her neck, one would not know that she was not well from looking at her. But Bashir did know.

He also knew that the nurses signed up for duty with the provisional government having the same knowledge of risk that he'd had when he signed up with Starfleet. They accepted that risk when they accepted their assignment to the station. But Julian still felt responsible. That, he'd decided, was the risk of being an officer. You felt responsible for protecting those who served under you. And he felt he'd failed, even though, rationally, he knew he couldn't have prevented it.

* * *

Kira stood back and watched as Chief O'Brien set about taking apart the ventilation system in cell number four. A diagnostic scan by the computer had testified that everything was working as it should, but that didn't answer the question of how Targo Hern was killed. She leaned back on the table, crossing her arms and legs. "Is there anything wrong with the ventilation?" she asked.

"I haven't really had time to figure that out yet, Major," O'Brien called back over his shoulder. Then he stopped, jumped down from the ladder he was standing on and faced Kira. "But I think we're going about this all the wrong way. If he was a terrorist--and I think he was--the others wouldn't want him to slip up and leak any information. Think about it. The doors wouldn't open. The transporter went conveniently offline."

"So you think it's the computer," Kira concluded. "Then it should be tagged, right?"

"Should be," O'Brien confirmed with a glint in his eye. "Let's find out." He stepped out of the cell and sat down at the table. He pressed a pad and a computer viewscreen raised from the surface of the table and activated.

Kira leaned over O'Brien's shoulder, bracing one arm on the table beside him. She watched carefully the displays he pulled up. She hoped that they'd finally have somewhere to go in this investigation. The Bajorans had already attempted to set off two bombs. One had been successful. Their pattern over the last two nights was to strike late at night, and each night they had stepped up their activities. What had begun as petty vandalism had become a serious threat. And so far, their only two suspects had ended up dead.

"The computer acknowledges the presence of DMSO and hematoglobulininhibitase," O'Brien said, pointing to the data on the screen. "It was in a mist. But it does not acknowledge an order from the Chief Medical Officer to change the interior atmosphere of cell number four."

"But that's impossible," Kira said, though she believed it. "Someone had to override--"

"But according to the computer," O'Brien didn't bother to let her finish, "no one did." He looked up at her and the glint was gone from his eyes. Worry appeared there instead. "Let's check that tag," he suggested.

Kira nodded, and the chief addressed the computer. "Computer, who ordered a change in atmosphere in cell number four?"

"Working," the computer answered.

"That should have been an easy question," O'Brien commented.

"There was no order to change the atmosphere in cell number four."

O'Brien sighed. "Computer, run program 'O'Brien's Tag' for the last two hours."

"Working."

"If someone tapped into the computer in that time, we should know about it," O'Brien told Kira. "This should be easier actually. It would have been worse if they had taken the whole computer offline again."

Kira studied O'Brien's face as he stared at the displays that were still on the viewscreen. He didn't appear as confident as he sounded. Kira didn't feel very confident either. Something inside her told her they were worse off now.

"No external devices were used in that time period," the computer pronounced.

O'Brien leaned back in the chair without taking his eyes off the display. "They were in the computer," he said, "I'm sure of it. But if they didn't use externals, they're in there deep."

"And they have control of our computer," Kira finished for him. She sat down beside him. Neither one spoke for a few minutes. It was an alarming thought. Life on the station depended on the central computer. It controlled everything from the fusion reactors to the gravity that kept their feet on the floor and the replicators that gave them food to eat.

O'Brien seemed to know what she was thinking. "They probably even know about the tag program."

* * *

Evening came without further incident. But none were expected, until later. Commander Benjamin Sisko was informed of the Bajorans' possible hold on the computer and knew that his people were doing their best to find the terrorists and end their threat. But the anxiety remained just the same. He not only thought of his crew, who accepted the risk of danger when they signed on, but also his son, who had no real say in the decision to come to this station.

If O'Brien was right, the whole station was at the will of the terrorists. Sisko ran all the scenarios in his mind. The Bajorans could shut down life support and kill everyone on board the station. Or they could take the anti-matter containment field offline and kill everyone on board the station. More likely, they could release the mooring clamps of a docked ship and fire the station's phasers at it before it had time to react. This could not only kill members of the vessel's crew, but perhaps spark a war. The Gidari would be a prime target.

Sisko tried to comfort himself in the knowledge that the terrorists did not appear stupid. They would most likely be wary of destroying Bajoran lives, and hopefully they would know that Bajor was not ready for a war with anyone, let alone the Gidari. So he had told Jake to stay in their quarters until he returned for dinner. Sisko, himself, headed for the _Ranger_.

He'd been concerned about Dr. Grant since he'd collapsed at dinner, but he'd had little time to see how he was. He didn't want to simply call. It seemed too impersonal. The security officers were waiting alertly beside the airlock doors, but Sisko was immediately allowed on board. He was glad for the calm pastel brightness of the _Ranger_'s corridors. They relaxed him. He felt as if he dropped a measure of anxiety just walking through the airlock door.

Grant's quarters were easy to find now. Sisko tapped the panel by the door and waited for the doctor to answer. There was no immediate answer, and he decided that Grant must be resting. Or perhaps he was not in at all. He turned to go, chiding himself for a wasted trip when so much was at risk on his station. But as he turned the door slid aside and Dr. Grant, looking a bit disheveled, stood in the doorway. He was surprised by Sisko's presence.

Grant did not move to greet him, so Sisko took it upon himself to start the conversation. "Hello, Alex. I wanted to see how you were doing. I hope you are feeling better."

Grant looked at him for a moment as if he was speaking another language. Then he responded, "Yes, I'm feeling much better. I was just sleeping." He straightened up, and, as if he was shocked at forgetting his manners, he invited Sisko in.

Grant's modest quarters were tidy and bright. The table from dinner the night before still stood at the side of the room with its eight chairs. But the dishes and food had been removed. Only a pitcher of water remained. Grant led him to the couch, and Sisko sat down.

"Can I get you something to drink, Commander?" Grant asked. Sisko was just about to correct him when he apologized. "I'm sorry. Benjamin?" He was smiling now, and he resembled much more the Dr. Grant that Sisko had met at Quark's two days before.

"No, thank you," Sisko said. "And I'm afraid I can't stay long. I'm quite busy on the station, and I've got to be home for dinner."

"I understand, what with all that's happening there." Grant sat down in the gray chair and smoothed down his hair with his hands. "Have you made any headway?"

"Not much, I'm afraid." Sisko felt bad for being vague. He knew that Grant was a suspect in the murders, but he still didn't believe it. Grant would not throw away his career and reputation. "But really, how are you? You worried us at dinner."

"Oh, well." Grant said. He leaned back in the chair and waved a hand to dismiss any anxiety. "It was just a momentary lapse I assure you. I had had some trouble sleeping the night before and took something to help. Unfortunately, I had an allergic reaction. But Doctor Maylon was quite competent, and I haven't had any problems today."

"I'm glad to hear it." Sisko smiled and began to rise. "I'm afraid I must be going. But perhaps you can join Jake and I for dinner tomorrow evening."

Grant rose, too, and they both walked toward the door, which obediently opened in front of them. "If you're not too busy, that would be a fine idea. Do call me and let me know. I don't want to keep you from your work."

"Fine," Sisko said, extending his hand. Grant shook it firmly. "Have a good evening, Alex."

"And you."

* * *

Bashir stood in the doorway to Quark's trying to decide if he was really going to go in. He stiffled a yawn and looked around the front room as he debated whether or not he felt like eating. In truth, he really didn't, but he knew he should. He'd hardly eaten at all in the last two days. But he just had too much on his mind.

"Doctor!" Quark smiled, waving his hand with a flair as he walked toward where Bashir was standing. "What an honor it is for us that you've come to patronize our modest establishment."

Bashir crossed his arms and looked down at the Ferengi, eyebrows raised. "You're not honored, and I'm not patronizing," he said, making up his mind. "I'm looking for someone. Has Lieutenant Dax been in this evening?"

Quark feigned an expression of deep disappointment, but then answered more seriously. "No. Is it a little cold to you?" And since Bashir was not to be a customer, he didn't wait for an answer. He swiftly turned his back on the doctor and walked away.

Bashir, for his part, turned away too, toward the Promenade. Now that Quark had mentioned it, he realized he did feel a bit colder. But he shrugged it away with little thought. The crowds on the Promenade were beginning to thin now as "night" was falling. But many were diehard Promenade customers and would not be frightened back to their quarters. Security officers were stationed conspicuously around the corridor. Bashir tapped his comm badge. "Computer, locate Lieutenant Jadzia Dax."

"Lieutenant Dax is in the science lab."

"Thank you," Bashir added, just to be polite. He started off for the lab. As he passed the Klingon restaurant a familiar face caught his eye. Maylon saw him too and waved him over. Bashir grimaced inwardly but sighed and managed a courteous smile as he walked toward Maylon's table.

Maylon stood and shook Bashir's hand before offering him a chair. "You haven't already had dinner, have you?" he asked. "I remember you like Klingon."

"Yes, I do," Julian said, sitting down, "but I'm afraid I can't stay long. I'm not really hungry, and I have a lot of work to do." Bashir felt a little guilty as he lied to his old roommate. Maylon may have been strange, but he had always been kind toward him. But he was also not the person Julian wanted to talk to just now.

"The murders?" Maylon asked with wide-eyed, child-like curiosity. "Have you got any suspects yet?"

"I'm afraid I can't discuss that with you, Maylon." This was the truth. Indeed, Maylon was a suspect. Bashir was reminded of this as he watched Maylon lift a pinch of gagh to his mouth in his left hand. "We haven't had much chance to talk, have we? Have you been to see your parents yet?"

"I can't ever go back there, Julian." Maylon's jovial expression faded. "They're stuck in the Dark Ages. Ahmossa IV is a joke."

"But I'm sure your family must miss you." He couldn't understand how Maylon could stay away from his family for so long. Maylon had three sisters whom he talked of proudly, but in the three years they'd been roommates, he'd never talked to them. "Have you called them?"

"No, Julian, I haven't called them," Maylon sing-songed, rolling his eyes. "Why the sudden interest in my family anyway? Are you getting homesick way out here and transferring it to me?" Maylon's smile returned.

"No, I've travelled around a lot, so I'm used to it. Besides I talk to my family often enough." Bashir decided to change the subject and didn't bother to volunteer how often that really was. "Are you excited about your first trip to the Gamma Quadrant?"

"Not really," Maylon said, and his smiled melted away again. It was replaced by a melancholy sourness. "No one asked me if I wanted to go there. Not if I wanted to stay in Starfleet anyway. It's so far away from everything. It's spooky. Besides you don't know the Captain."

"I did meet him at dinner last night," Julian stated. "He seemed quite the gentleman. And he was very knowledgeable and enthusiastic."

"Oh, maybe when he's socializing," Maylon smirked. "He's a slave driver. He's Ekosian you know."

"So?" Julian asked casually.

"So?" Maylon seemed shocked that Bashir didn't know. "So they're Nazis."

"Not any more," Julian tried to reason. "That was a long time ago. The Zeons and Ekosians still may have some problems, but on the whole they've learned to cooperate and help each other."

"I don't know how they can," Maylon said, shaking his head sadly. He leaned back in his chair, placed his fingertips together, and stared at them thoughtfully. "Doctor Pynar's a Zeon. And her brother's the Second Officer. I wonder how they really feel serving under Captain Gerin."

"They're trained Starfleet officers, and they've learned not to hold history against someone," Julian said. He couldn't help feeling like he was lecturing a child. "Captain Gerin isn't even old enough to have been involved in that anyway. How are you getting on with Doctor Pynar?"

"She's nice enough. She's a good doctor, and we get along. She's kind of worried right now," Maylon disclosed, "about the Bajorans, I mean. There doesn't seem to be any way of tracking them or stopping them. She's worried they'll do something to the ship, like mess with life-support or something."

"What about you?" Julian asked. "Are you worried?"

"Not too much," Maylon shrugged. "I don't put too much stock in worrying. It won't do any good. If they do something, I can't stop it. Hopefully Security or Engineering could, but if not. . . ."

"I suppose," Bashir said, amused. "But I think I have an overdeveloped sense of self-preservation."

"A fight-to-the-last-breath sort, huh?" Maylon chuckled. "Well, to each his own. How's that lieutenant of yours, Julian?"

That really caused Bashir to laugh. "Jadzia? She's hardly my lieutenant." He remembered how he'd treated her the night before, and the laughter stopped. She had only wanted to help. "She's a very good friend. I really must be going, Maylon," Julian said as he stood up. "It was good to see you again."

Maylon stood as well. "You, too, Julian. Be careful. This station's a pretty wild place."

"Yes, I suppose it is. Good-night." Julian left the restaurant and headed again for the science lab. The lab wasn't far away, and he hoped that she was still there. He hesitated as he approached the door. But the door opened in front of him, giving him no opportunity to change his mind. Dax was sitting in front of her computer console, and she looked up when he entered. She smiled brightly, but Julian couldn't make himself smile in return.

"I was hoping to see you at dinner," he said before she could even say hello. He was stalling, and that only made him feel worse. "What are you working on?"

Dax motioned for him to sit down and pointed to the computer's display. "I've simulated the Gidari chemicals you found in Ensign Tsingras. I couldn't replicate them. The computer couldn't recognize the components. If I actually had some on hand perhaps. I'm trying to analyze them, but it's proving rather difficult. I need more time, but the computer is kind of unpredictable at this stage. Considering the time, I expect it to go down in about six more hours."

Bashir opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again. He took a deep breath and gave it another try. "Jadzia," he began, "I want to apologize. I treated you horribly last night, and there's no excuse for it."

Dax turned to give him her full attention. "Yes, there is," she said warmly. "You just haven't told me yet."

Julian stood and walked away from her to face the wall. "I know," he confessed. "I don't think I can. It's difficult." He crossed his arms and then uncrossed them nervously. _It's just words, _he tried to convince himself, _nothing to worry about_.

Dax said nothing behind him and didn't push. Julian wanted to tell her, but it was just hard to make his voice work. He laced his fingers, stretching the muscles in his hands. He took another deep breath. "It _is _about Grant," he admitted. "But it's something I have to deal with on my own. I know you only want to help me, but you can't. It still just comes down to me."

"I'm confused," Dax said.

"So am I," Bashir admitted and melted back into the chair. "It's confusing. Grant did know me, and I knew him. Something bad happened then, and I've got to find my own way through it now."

Dax nodded, but her eyebrows were still pulled slightly down over eyes. "Something bad. Is that why you hate him?"

Bashir laughed sardonically. "Yes, and no. It's all so much more complicated than that." He still stretched his fingers nervously until they began to hurt. "Jadzia, I don't mean to push you away,"

"I know, Julian." Dax smiled back at him. "If you can't tell me, I can understand that. But I'm still going to care about you."

"Thank you." There was a silence between them for a moment, but there was no awkwardness. Bashir sat up, and they worked on the chemical analysis together.

* * *

Inara pulled on a sweater and powered up her little computer again. With swift fingers she lowered the temperature of the station by another three degrees, just to annoy them. Things were going to step up tonight. The Elders--or rather, Targo Dain and Tig Ferrel, the only Elders left--wished it so. The Federation wasn't listening. So tonight someone would die. Theel would see to that.

And Inara was to see that Theel was able to complete his assignment. She didn't like Theel. He was her age and handsome, but such a yes-man. He had no brain of his own, Inara was sure of that. He could only think what the Elders thought. Inara realized that in part she loathed him because she could see herself in him. She, too, had given everything to what the Elders demanded. She had ceased to think for herself, believing naively that the Elders knew what was best for her and Bajor.

And now she felt differently. She had lost her family to the Cardassians, but her freedom had really been taken by the Elders. They had taken her dreams, her love, her devotion, her talents. They had even taken her cousin, Liian. She had given them all willingly, but now she resented it, longed to have it all back. Theel could not have understood that.

She also realized that she could destroy the Elders relatively easily. With the station's computer, she had more power than they. They were a small group, truth be told. Three Elders, including Targo Kob, and a dozen or so Theels. And Inara could dissolve the whole thing just by entering a few commands. But she didn't. She still believed that Bajor needed to be free. And she still didn't know if the Elders had ordered Liian's death. That was something she needed to know for sure.

Besides, it was a bit of a game. Chief of Operations Miles O'Brien was her main adversary, not the Federation and not Major Kira Nerys. O'Brien was the only one who could possibly stop her, and, so far, she was disappointed in his performance. He was no closer to her than before she'd arrived on the station. But she could see he had potential. He had brought the computer back up before late morning. It was working perfectly--if one could say that about the Cardassian computer--by early afternoon. She was determined to make him work harder this time around.

* * *

Bashir was calmer than at any time since the _Ranger_ docked at the station. He yawned and drank down the last of his tea. "Task complete," the computer intoned.

"Look at this, Julian," Dax said, pointing to the computer screen. They had been trying to unlock the secrets of the Gidari chemicals. The computer was fine now, but the secrecy of the Gidari meant that the computer had little to work with. "They're synthetic," she concluded, "I'm sure of that."

"Yes," Julian agreed, "but how did they make them? And how do we counteract them?"

Dax frowned and zipped the neck of her uniform up a little higher. "Those are good questions. What I can tell you is that they can't do much by themselves."

"Let's see." Bashir moved his chair a little closer so that he could see the display better. Dax placed a small vial of bluish liquid under the scanner of her computer and ran a scan. The display showed the molecular structure of the chemical as well as information on its atomic properties. It was a close match to the Gidari chemical recorded by the scan of Nurse Reyna after her abduction.

Dax pressed a few controls and the computer display changed. Now the computer displayed data pertaining to the effects of the chemical on humanoid anatomy.

"It's a truth serum," Bashir realized after studying the information.

"Are you sure?" Dax asked. She pointed to one line of data on the screen. "There'd be heightened activity in the nervous system."

"I know," Bashir said. "This is the one they gave Nurse Reyna. It's apparently quite painful. But it has to have a purpose. Why would they have given it to her? They wanted to know something." He addressed the computer, "Computer, show me the effects of this chemical at time intervals of ten minutes from injection to dissipation."

"Working," the computer droned. The display then split into six horizontal parts. The first showed the effects at injection. It was markedly different from the data suggested by Dax's scan.

"It mutates," Dax said. "Reyna would have been quite relaxed for nearly twenty minutes."

"And cooperative," Bashir added. "She would've been very open to suggestion. But if they wanted her to talk, why did they cut her vocal cords? It's a bit contradictory."

"Maybe they waited until you were coming for that," Dax suggested. "The drug would have mutated by then."

"True. How long will it take to dissipate?" Bashir ran the screen down past the sixth interval. The thirteenth showed a drop in concentration of nearly one percent. It decreased by one percent every ten minutes from then on.

"But she was down to only fifty percent when I left her." Bashir thought for a moment. "She was dropping twice as fast as this after I gave her a sedative. The sedative must have had some immediate effect. But it's slowed down now." He released a sigh, thankful that the sedative hadn't made things worse. "What about the other one?"

Dax replaced the blue vial with one containing a green liquid. The computer screen first displayed the molecular structure with data on it's viscosity, weight, and surface tension. This one was thicker and more viscous than the previous fluid. Running the scan in the same way Bashir had on the first one, Dax pulled up a screen showing the effects of the drug at ten minute intervals.

The drug had no serious effect at all. It stayed in the bloodstream, thickening and slowing the blood flow. But it was neither life-threatening nor permanent. Once in contact with hemoglobin, it broke down quickly. By the twenty-eighth interval, four hours after injection, there was no trace of the drug.

But then Dax placed a petri dish under the scanner and poured a bit of each of the fluids into it. The reaction was instantaneous. The combination of the liquids turned black. The computer analyzed the new compound as an acid. And the effects were a significant change. Death was inevitable. A humanoid subject would be dead within ninety minutes. The computer theorized that death could be postponed, but not averted, by nearly five hours, with the addition of various other chemicals, which would alter the compound's structure.

"Tsingras did not go pleasantly." Bashir stared at the computer screen.

"But it's good to know that Reyna will be alright," Dax said.

"Yes, and speaking of Reyna," Bashir remarked, "I must be getting back to check on her."

"It's late. You need to get some sleep," suggested Dax.

"I agree." Bashir stood and stretched his arms behind him. He suppressed the urge to yawn again. "The Gidari woke me up rather early this morning. But I'll check on Reyna first. Actually, I'm going to sleep in the Infirmary. If there is another emergency, and there's a good chance that there will be, I don't want to be stuck in my quarters."

Dax nodded and set the computer to run another test.

"And if I were you," he continued, "I would go home while you can still see the way."

"I will soon," she replied. "And if the lights go out, I'll just stop in the Infirmary and grab an empty biobed."

"You're always welcome. Good night." Bashir walked toward the door. It opened before him, but he stopped before he went through it. "Thank you."

Dax said nothing but smiled. Bashir left. As he walked down the corridor, he thought that he remembered his mother smiling that way.

* * *

Dr. Alexander Grant combed his hair, smiled at himself in the mirror, and left his quarters. He walked quickly down the corridor, not seeing the colors of the walls or the people that passed him. He just walked, smiling happily. The turbolift doors opened before him, and he heard his own voice telling the computer where he wanted to go. But he didn't feel the turbolift move. He walked forward when it stopped again and followed the corridors to the airlock.

Two security guards were waiting on the station's side of the airlock. Grant waved as he approached them.

"It's late, Doctor," one cautioned.

But Grant was hardly listening. He walked past, still grinning, and called back over his shoulder, "I'm just going out for a walk." To himself, he thought that it was a rather dark day, and perhaps it was going to rain. He took a deep breath as he walked. He always loved the way the air smelled before a rain, like it was waiting for something.


	8. Chapter Eight

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Eight**

Julian Bashir entered the Infirmary thankful that the security officers were still at their posts and the doors were still working. The lights in the Promenade and in the Infirmary were dimmed for the night, and Nurse Ilona was sitting at the computer. "How's Reyna?" he asked.

"I just checked on her five minutes ago, Doctor," the nurse answered, looking up. "She was still asleep. The concentration of the drug is now down to twenty-seven percent."

Bashir nodded. "Very good. She should be free of it by morning." Then he added, "I have a feeling the computer will go down again tonight. I'll be staying here, just in case, but I've got to get some sleep. I'm going to check on Nurse Reyna, but I'll need you to check on her through the night."

"Of course," Ilona nodded as Bashir turned away toward where Reyna was sleeping.

As he approached her, Reyna began to stir. Bashir stood quietly and waited for her to wake up. Her eyes fluttered and then opened. She grimaced as she took in a deep breath. Her eyes were fearful until she saw the doctor and began to recognize the familiar surroundings. She even managed a weak smile.

"Easy," Bashir said, lifting her arm in his left hand. "Don't try to talk or move around too much." He held up his right fist with his fingers facing her. "I'm going to teach you a little sign language," he said. "This is yes." He nodded his fist up and down like one would nod his head in agreement. "And this is no." His first two fingers and thumb unfolded from the fist and snapped once together at their tips. "Do you feel better?" he asked.

He was holding her arm at the wrist, raising it off the bed. Her hand formed a fist and nodded.

"Good." Bashir smiled. "Glad to hear it. Pain?"

Her hand nodded again.

"Sorry to hear it. But you should feel much better in the morning. Then we'll work on getting your voice back. Do you remember what happened?"

Her hand hesitated, but remained in a fist, and her brows dropped as she thought.

"You don't remember everything."

"No," her hand answered.

"The Gidari?"

"Yes."

"They drugged you. We've analyzed the drug. You're going to be fine. It should be completely worn off by morning, and the pain should subside. They attached some device to your larynx. The wound didn't respond to the dermal regenerator, but I think that's due to the drug. Let's have a look at it, though." Bashir released her arm and lifted the bandage on her neck. The stitches were holding, and the wound was beginning to show the first signs of healing. "Yes, it looks better." Bashir replaced the bandage and straightened up again. "Are you cold?" he asked, as he rubbed one hand along the opposite shoulder until he felt the friction heating up his arm.

Her hand lifted several inches above the bed and nodded.

"Computer," Bashir said, "what is the present temperature?"

"The temperature is twenty-four degrees Celcius."

"It doesn't feel like twenty-four," Ilona said. She was watching, ready to help should she be needed, as Bashir had tended to Reyna. "I'll get some more blankets."

Bashir nodded and Ilona left the room. Bashir picked up a tricorder and tested the temperature for himself. "It's only ten degrees," he said, and as he watched the tricorder's screen, the temperature dropped another three degrees. "They've already started. Get some palm beacons while you're at it."

"Yes, Doctor," Ilona called back.

Bashir tapped his communications badge. "Bashir to Ops."

Kira answered impatiently. "If it's the temperature you're calling about," she said in response, "we already know."

"Just checking," Bashir said. He was just about to end his call when the displays above Reyna's biobed went dark. The Infirmary's lights followed, along with the medical computer. The Infirmary, lacking viewports, was plummeted into darkness. A beam of light moved into the room. It approached him, and Ilona handed him the palm beacon she was carrying. She also handed him a blanket. Bashir held the light as the nurse laid another blanket and beacon down on the next biobed, and covered Reyna with the third.

"Well," declared Bashir, "there's nothing more to do for now. Reyna and I need to get some rest." He turned the light towards Reyna but was careful not to shine it directly at her. Her fist nodded to him again. He turned back to Ilona and added, "Wake me when the chemical has dissipated completely."

"Yes, Doctor. Good night," Ilona said, picking up the extra blanket and light, and walking back over to her chair. She picked up a padd and began to read something on its display.

"Good night," Bashir repeated. But his attention was still on Reyna. He walked around her and set his blanket down on the biobed there. He placed the light on the cabinet between the beds where she could still reach it. "I'll be right over here if you need anything," he said. Then he took off his boots and unfolded the blanket. He left the light shining when he laid down. He was asleep within minutes.

* * *

Doctor Grant wandered cautiously, hands outstretched, through the dirt streets on the edge of town. It hadn't rained as he'd expected, but it had become very dark quite suddenly. He'd even run into a few trees. But he had to be home for dinner, or Helen would worry. So he kept walking, complaining to himself about the cold and the lack of moonlight when there wasn't a cloud in the sky. The stars hid from him, too, and only gave him the tiniest glimpses of light before fading away again. He'd never seen such darkness in Stratford. He wished he'd brought the horse along. Annie could always find her way home.

Grant let his guard down for just a moment and smacked the side of his face into the hard-edged truck of a tree. Instinctively his hand came up to his face, and he could feel the blood that trickled from a cut beneath his eye. His eye stung with pain, and he felt a little dizzy. But as he came around the tree, he saw a small light evenly flickering red. _Ah_, he thought, _Helen has lit a lantern. _Still holding his hands in front of him he advanced more confidently toward the little light. Strangely, it flickered near the ground. _Why didn't she put it in the window? _It would then have spilled its light into the house as well as onto the front steps.

He expected the lantern to grow brighter as he neared it, but it stayed small and red. And when he was no more than thirty meters from his door, the small light stopped flickering and burned solid. And then it was gone, leaving him alone in the dark again. "Helen?" he called out. Why had she put out the light?

He was answered by the sound of an explosion. It echoed around him even as the force of the blast pushed him back down the corridor. Orange light struck his eyes as he righted himself. He could feel the heat against his face. "Helen!" he screamed and struggled to stand and run forward toward the house. It burned bright against the dark moonless night.

Another blast pulled him off his feet and a strong wind dragged him toward the house, which was no longer burning. "Helen!" he cried again. She was still in the house, though he could no longer see it. And the children! Where were the children? But before he could reach the space where the house had been, a black wall dropped quickly in front of him, nearly catching his feet as it slammed with a metallic ring to the ground . . . to the deck.

* * *

The first explosion had destroyed the inner airlock door, sending fire and pieces of metal spiraling through the corridor. The second explosion had struck the outer door and thrown the small Teldarian vessel docked there free of the station, breaching the trader's hull. The station's security systems had recovered quickly, having been left online, and airtight walls had closed around the airlock, blocking off that section of the ring.

The smaller craft, however, had been too far damaged by the seven foot hole in its hull. It's entire crew of fourteen people were blown out the cavity into the cold stillness of space as the ship drifted away from the station. Without the sensors or communication, no one in Ops even knew it had happened.

* * *

"Doctor?"

"Hmm?" Bashir mumbled as he was gently shaken from his sleep.

"You told me to wake you," Ilona's voice spoke.

Opening his eyes, the doctor could see her silhouette framed by the light from the palm beacon that sat between his bed and Reyna's. She smiled at him. One hand clutched the corners of a blanket pulled tight around her shoulders.

Bashir yawned. "What time is it?" he asked. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. And then he pulled his own blanket around his shoulders. The temperature must have dropped again.

"0130," she answered and handed him his shoes.

"Why so late? She was down to twenty-three percent when I went to sleep." Bashir stood, and, leaning against the side of the bed, he slipped his feet into his boots.

"She said to let you sleep," Ilona explained.

Bashir looked at his nurse in surprise. "She spoke to you? How?"

"Well, she just whispered it," Ilona whispered. She handed him his tricorder. "We compromised. There was no sign of infection, so I let you sleep another hour."

Bashir was going to get angry. Ilona was a good nurse. But she knew that it was not up to her to determine when he should treat his patients. But his body was still reacting slowly, and he only thought about getting angry. And Reyna was smiling at him, while her hand raised from the bed to nod her vote in favor of Ilona's compromise. Besides, that extra hour of sleep had felt good.

"You," he said to Reyna, "were supposed to be resting." He knew she couldn't answer. She looked well. There was no strain behind her eyes. The pain had apparently subsided. "Any more pain?" he asked.

Her hand hesitated and then made a gesture that just happened to correspond exactly to the sign language for "little."

The biobed was, of course, no longer working, but the tricorder, which operated independently of the computer, still functioned perfectly. There was no trace of the Gidari truth drug. Only the damage to Reyna's throat remained. "Well, I can't give you your voice back until the computer is back up. But we can take care of this," he said, lifting the bandage on her neck. He shrugged the blanket from his shoulders so that his hands could be free.

Bashir nodded to Nurse Ilona, and she set a hypospray to Reyna's neck. Reyna calmly closed her eyes and let the melorazine put her to sleep. Her breathing was deep and her pulse strong. This was the easy part, Bashir thought, knowing that repairing her larynx so that her voice matched would be more complicated. This time, her tissues responded well to the regenerator.

Afterwards he snipped away the stitches, carefully lifting them away with a clamp. Ilona was waiting with a clean bandage. Though healed, the trachea and skin were still sensitive and delicate. Bashir sighed when he was finished. Reyna was going to be fine. He watched her sleeping peacefully, and some of his guilt fell away.

"You should try to go back to sleep now," Ilona said, keeping her voice quiet as if she was afraid she'd wake the other nurse. She lifted his blanket from the floor and laid it across the foot of his bed. "I wouldn't be surprised if you were needed in the morning." Ilona knew, as nearly everyone on the station did, about the murders and about the bomb in the habitat ring the night before. Nothing remained a secret for long on the station.

"Let's hope not." He yawned and a chill slipped up his spine, reminding him of the cold. He checked his tricorder again: one degree. He sat on the side of the biobed and took off his shoes again.

* * *

"Stimulant, Major?" the communications technician asked, trying to be helpful.

"No, thank you," Kira snapped. Did she look that tired? She wasn't angry with the technician. She was furious. But with the terrorists. It didn't matter that she'd been up since four in the morning. The adrenaline from her anger was enough to keep her awake. "Where are they?" she asked, pounding her fist on the black console in front of her. The only lights that shone there were the reflections of the palm beacons spaced around the Operations Center.

"Without the sensors, it's impossible to know," the technician commented.

Kira shot him an acid glance. She knew that. That in part was what aroused her temper. It was impossible. Everything was impossible. She couldn't do anything to stop them. There were security officers on the Promenade, but she could not communicate with them. The computer was the lifeline of the station, and Kira was beginning to understand just how important it was. On a planet, it was different. You could have natural food and water and air and the sun for light. But on a space station, the computer controlled food, the water, the air, everything. And whoever controlled the computer controlled the station.

Then a shimmering form appeared on the transporter pad. The pad was, like nearly everything else on the station, nonfunctional, and Kira instinctively reached for her phaser. Someone was boarding the station. As the form began to take shape, Kira caught herself and replaced her phaser. It was a Klingon. They weren't the nicest of people, but they weren't enemies. Kira did not want to insult this one by pulling a phaser on him.

The Klingon was an imposing figure, especially when seen from several steps below him. He stepped heavily down from the transporter pad and took two angry steps before stopping just in front of Major Kira. He was still imposing. He stood nearly a foot taller than her, but she could also see the youth behind his bearded face.

"You are in command of this station?" he demanded.

"At the moment, yes," Kira answered. Actually she admired the Klingons in part. They were direct and honest. There was no need for diplomatic half-speech with them. They got straight to the point.

"You did not answer our communications, so I have been charged with delivering this message," the man said. He held out what resembled a data padd, though its design was darker and crude, with sharper angles.

She took the padd and read the information there. She wanted to sit down, but she didn't. She locked her knees instead. One must not show weakness to a Klingon. She stayed standing stiffly, showing no emotion. But she could feel the heat rising to her face. Another bomb. This time on the docking ring. Fourteen dead. The Klingons had recovered the bodies of the Teldarian crew and brought the ship back under tractor beam.

"Please express our gratitude to your captain for the assistance. I'd like to see the ship. Our transporter is down."

The Klingon activated his communicator, and Kira felt a pang of envy and shame at the station's helplessness. He spoke for a moment in his own language, which, without the computer, was not immediately translated. He stood at attention as he talked, as if his superiors could see him. But he did not relax even when he ended the communication. He looked down at the major. "You may accompany me to the _Nej_."

Kira turned to the communications technician. "Inform the commander that there has been another bomb. I'm going to investigate. And tell Doctor Bashir to expect the transport of fourteen dead."

The technician stared at her stupidly. "How?"

Kira scowled. This was not one of Starfleet's top graduates, that was for sure. "I don't care how, just do it. And get Security to Docking Port Four."

The technician straightened to attention. "Yes, sir."

Kira picked up a tricorder and turned back to the Klingon. She nodded and he activated his communicator again. Instantly she felt the tingling sensation of the transporter beam and saw the dim environs of the Operations Center fade from view. It was replaced by the interior of the Klingon vessel, which wasn't much more pleasant or well-lit.

* * *

_"Julian!" Mother called. "George! Don't wander off too far. We'll be eating soon." The baby began to cry, and she cooed to it softly._

_Julian and George were pirates looking for treasure on a deserted island. They had sticks for swords, even though they knew Dad would be angry if he knew they were playing with sticks. They were having a duel to see who would get the treasure. George was older at six years old, and he always won such fights. But in the middle of it, just when he had pinned Julian to the ground, he turned and started to run from the woods where they were playing._

_"Where are you going?" Julian asked, running to keep up._

_George stopped running and stood by a large oak tree. "I'm hungry," George answered. "I'm going back. Where are you going?"_

_Julian didn't like the way George had said that. "I'm hungry, too. I'm going with you."_

_"You can't go with me," George said._

_"But I don't know the way," Julian complained. He was getting worried. George wasn't acting right._

_"That's not my problem," George shrugged. "I'm going to my family," He turned and ran again._

_Julian hurried to keep up, but George was too quick. Julian's legs and chest hurt from trying to fun so fast. He could just barely keep George in sight. He was afraid. The woods had grown dark and scary. He didn't want to be left there alone._

_George disappeared from his sight, but Julian kept running. Soon he broke out of the woods into a beautiful, bright afternoon. George was running toward the family. Julian could see his father there and his baby sister. A blanket with food was laid out under a large, leafy tree. But his mother was gone. Father was happy to see George. He picked him up in his arms and hugged him. Then they sat down and started to eat._

_Julian ran happily up to the edge of the blanket. He was hungry, and there was a lot of good food. "Where's Mum?" he asked._

_"You," Father stood up. His eyes were angry. "What are you doing here?"_

_Julian opened his mouth to answer, but at first he couldn't think of anything to say. "I'm hungry too," he finally blurted stupidly._

_"This is a family picnic," Father said. "Go away. You're not welcome here." George, behind him, was holding a sandwich in his hands. He stuck out his tongue._

_"But I'm family, too," Julian explained. He didn't understand what was happening. "Where's mother? She'll tell you."_

_Father grabbed him by the arms. "I told you to go away," he repeated. He shook Julian with each word. The sky here had grown dark too and cold. Julian shivered beneath his father's grip. _

Bashir was awoken again by Ilona's hand urgently shaking his shoulder. Someone was at the door, attempting to open it from the outside. "It's Security," she said. She held out a tricorder. "I checked for their comm badges to make sure."

Bashir sat up slowly. It was harder this time. It seemed as if he'd just gone back to sleep. Ilona was already back at the door. She removed a panel from the wall and pulled a lever. The door moved slowly in its track until it was wide enough for a man to enter. A security officer stood at attention at the other side of the door.

"Ensign Barton, sir," the man said between breaths. He had obviously had a hard time getting to the Infirmary.

Bashir nodded. "Is someone injured?" He put on his boots and stood to stretch his legs. He feared the worst: someone was dead. Another victim of the murderer.

"No one's injured, sir," Barton answered. "There are fourteen dead. The Klingons will be transporting them here, sir."

Fourteen. It was even worse than he had feared. "What happened?"

"A bomb, sir, on the docking ring. Docking Port Four. That's all I know. I still have to inform the commander."

"All right," Bashir said, and the man disappeared out the door again.

"Should I close it?" Ilona asked, gesturing toward the door.

"I don't know." Bashir thought for a moment. He had a lot to think about. Fourteen. There weren't enough biobeds. But then, they wouldn't really need them, would they? Would they send them all at once or one at a time? Close the door? Which was safer, open or closed? "Can you see any Security from the door?" he asked.

Ilona leaned her head out and looked around. Several beams of light were visible from the door, filling the Promenade with a thin, ghostly light. "Yes."

"Okay then. Leave it open." Even as he decided, the open area of the floor began to shimmer with the effect of a transporter. Four bodies encased in plastic were deposited on the floor. A Klingon woman was standing behind them. Bashir recognized her. He'd treated her dislocated shoulder a few days before. He was glad she was here. They'd need the help.

"Where do you want them?" she barked.

Bashir looked back at the morgue against the back wall. The drawers would have to be opened manually. Their primary function was holding the bodies in stasis, so that they didn't decay, but without the computer they could only serve to hold the bodies. "Along the back wall." Without another word the Klingon bent down and lifted the corners of one bag. Bashir lifted the feet and together they carried the first body to the back of the room. Ilona went to the back and forced one of the drawers open as Bashir and the Klingon carried the rest of the bodies. When the first four were laid in their drawers, the woman called for the Klingon ship to transport another four. They continued until all fourteen were in the morgue.

"Thank you for your help," Bashir offered as they set down the last of the corpses.

The Klingon said nothing but nodded. She handed him a data padd. Then she disappeared in a transporter effect. The padd held information from the preliminary examination by the Klingon medic aboard their ship. The corpses were Teldarians. Most had apparently been killed when they were blown out into space by the breach in their hull. One had sustained serious injuries that suggested he had been standing near the airlock when it blew. Some others had wounds from flying debris. And they'd all have to be examined.

* * *

It took Sisko a few minutes to realize that the pounding on his door was not the sound of drums at a jazz bar in Kansas City. It was Jake who actually convinced him.

"Dad," Jake pleaded in a whisper, "wake up. Someone's at the door. They're trying to get in."

The room was dark when Sisko opened his eyes. He sat up quickly at the sound of fear in Jake's voice. Someone was trying to get in. "Wait here," he told his son, forcibly sitting him down on the bed.

He stumbled into the living room, stubbing his toe on a chair before he reached the door. Someone was indeed pounding on the door. "Who is it?" he asked.

The pounding stopped. "Ensign Barton, sir," the pounder answered. "Major Kira sent me with a message."

She's still on duty? Sisko shook his head. Kira didn't know when to take a break. She didn't know how. "Just a moment," Sisko called. He felt around the door for the panel that covered the manual opening lever for the door. He found it and popped off the cover, which fell lightly to the floor. Then he pulled down hard on the lever, and the door slowly slid open. On the other side a tired young ensign with a palm beacon stood with a security officer behind him.

"Come in," the commander said. The ensign followed him into the living room, but the security officer waited at the open door. Sisko's eyes began to adjust to the darkness that seemed on the verge of overtaking the ray of light from the ensign's beacon. But he still couldn't see Jake peeking from the door to his father's bedroom.

The ensign seemed to be breathing a bit hard. "There's been another bomb," he said. "The Klingons notified us. One beamed into Ops. There are fourteen dead. They're being transported to the Infirmary. Security's been sent to Docking Bay Four."

Sisko sat down in the chair he'd nearly fallen over earlier. So they weren't satisfied any more with blowing up empty quarters and deserted shops. Fourteen. "When was this?"

"I'm not sure when it went off. But it took me nearly twenty minutes to get here."

"Wait here," Sisko told the ensign. He got up and went to his room to change. Jake was waiting on the bed. Sisko could barely make out his form in the absence of light.

"Who are the people?" Jake asked. He was still whispering.

"You were listening." It wasn't a question. "I don't know. The Teldarian ship is docked at that port." Sisko paused before he zipped up his uniform. "Look, Jake," he said, "I don't want you on the Promenade today. Not even when the lights come back on. It's getting too dangerous."

"It's no more dangerous than staying here," Jake sulked. He took the blanket from his father's bed and pulled it across his lap. "They bombed the habitat ring last night. Besides, it only happens at night."

Sisko wanted to protect his son, to hide him away from all danger. But Jake was right. No terrorist attacks had happened during the day. Only one murder had been committed then, and it would be stupid of the murderer to try something that public again.

Then Jake got an idea. "I have to go to school, don't I?" He had begun to think that staying home wasn't such a bad idea. If he couldn't go to the Promenade, he couldn't go to school.

"Right." That's not what Jake had wanted to hear. Sisko knew it wasn't. He had caught the slight rise in his son's voice. "You're right. It's no more dangerous than staying here. But I want you to stay where the people are. Don't go anywhere alone. And that doesn't mean you can go snooping around with Nog. Stay out in the open. There are security guards on the Promenade. Don't get where you can't see them."

"All right." Jake assented.

Sisko finished zipping up his uniform and stepped into his shoes. "But keep that door shut until it opens on its own."

"Okay, okay," Jake said. He was nearly pushing his father out the bedroom door.

The ensign had sat down and rose again to attention when the commander reentered the room. "Close the door behind me," Sisko repeated.

"All right," Jake said. And he obediently lifted the lever, closing the door when his father and the ensign left.

Sisko followed the ensign as far as the access crawlway that would take them back to the Promenade. "I'm going to the docking ring," he said. The security officer looked as if he would protest. "Give me your light," he told the ensign. And he walked off toward the crossover bridge before either one could object.

* * *

Inara Taleyn appeared noiselessly in the Cardassian clothier's shop. She carried nothing with her except her computer, which hung from a strap around her neck and shoulder, and the bomb. She didn't need a flashlight. She'd chosen the coordinates for transport carefully. She was right where she wanted to be: in the middle changing booth at the back of the shop. Just where Liian had been.

She raised the bomb. It felt light and smooth beneath her gloved fingers. The timer was set for five minutes. She placed it on the wall at the back of the booth and armed it. A small red light blinked on and off. No one would see it behind the curtain here. She lifted the computer and activated the transporter again. She watched the flashing red light as she felt the transporter beam fall around her. The light faded from her view and was replaced by the white light of the palm beacon that Theel held in her darkened quarters. He was smiling.

* * *

Sisko had found his way to the docking ring and followed the voices to Docking Port Four. The corridor was sealed off, which meant that the hull had been breached. Security officers as well as operations technicians were already there. So were the Klingons, giving their assistance and the use of their transporter. Chief O'Brien was pulling on a pressure suit. Kira was pulling one off. And she didn't look happy. Sisko had to shout to be heard over the repair crew. "How much damage, Major?"

"They blew the airlock all to pieces," she said. Her face was red, and her eyes were narrowed in anger. "The Teldarian ship was blown clear of the station. The Klingons pulled the ship back and brought in the bodies. They didn't stand a chance."

"You've seen the ship?" Sisko asked, helping her out of the awkward Klingon suit.

"Yes, the hull was breached at the airlock. Any evidence left from the bomb was swept out into space with the crew and the airlock door." Kira pulled off the last leg of the suit and kicked it across the corridor. "They've got control of this station, Commander. They can come and go as they please and blow up every airlock we have. And there's nothing we can do about it. We don't even know that it happens."

"You need some sleep, Major." Sisko could tell that she was tired. She may have lost her temper often, but she rarely lost control of herself in this manner. Everything she said was right, but ranting about it wasn't going to stop the terrorists.

"I can't sleep now, not with this going on," Kira protested, running a hand through her hair. "I'm not tired."

"You are," Sisko persisted. "Have Doctor Bashir give you something so you can sleep, if you have to."

"I have work to do, Commander." Kira had regained her composure. "I need to find the people who are doing this."

"I admire your dedication to your duty, Major, but you can do your job better if you are rested." Kira would stay awake for a week if that's what it took, Sisko knew that. She nearly had on several occasions. But tired minds got sloppy. They missed things. "What is there to do? Right now, what can you do?"

"Well," Kira said, thinking.

Sisko didn't wait for her. "You can't search the airlock for fragments until O'Brien's got it sealed off. So what can you do? You can't question witnesses, because there weren't any."

"There was one, Commander."

Sisko spun around. A Bajoran security officer had overheard their conversation. "There was one witness. He was wounded by the blast. He's being escorted to the Infirmary."

Sisko turned back to Kira. "The minute there's nothing to do, you go to sleep. And that's an order."

Kira was wide awake again. "The Infirmary?" she said, raising an eyebrow.

Sisko didn't answer but set off at a run down the crossover bridge with Kira right on his heels.

* * *

Julian Bashir uncovered the first corpse as Nurse Ilona held the light. The body of the Teldarian man was cold from the time it spent in space unprotected. His clothes were in a separate bag at his feet. The Klingons had been careful to keep everything that might contain pieces of evidence. This man had no wounds on his body, but his face carried a stricken expression. It was frozen in a last gasp for air.

Bashir lifted the bag of clothes and handed them to Ilona. She set them on an empty biobed as he pushed the drawer back into the wall. Without the computer and the power it supplied, the drawers were heavy and stubborn. They both took hold of the next drawer and pulled it open to the length of the next victim's body. This one was a woman. She was young. And she had been badly wounded. The entire right side of her body was burned and slashed from debris. She must have been walking near the airlock when it blew.

Working slowly and carefully, Dr. Bashir began to remove the many slivers and chunks of debris. Undoubtedly, most of it was the airlock. But perhaps some of it was the bomb. And perhaps then they could find a DNA trace, once the computer was running again.

Bashir held a long sliver of metal in the clamp. He pulled gently, trying to ease it from the woman's abdomen, but it appeared to be wedged into a rib. "I'll need a laser scalpel," he said. Ilona, who had been holding the light, left her spot by the drawer and walked over to a cabinet to fetch the scalpel.

A loud explosion shook the floor, and smoke filtered in through the open door. Bashir released his hold on the clamp and ran toward the door. Ilona handed him his medical kit as he ran. "Stay here and watch the door," he warned her.

Out in the corridor security officers were screaming to each other and running in the direction of the blast. Bashir ran with them. The smoke became thicker as they neared the Bajoran temple. But through the smoke, Bashir could see flames in Garak's shop. The terrorists had come back for a second try. Nearly a dozen security personnel stood there coughing from the smoke and trying to see into the shop.

"Go back to your posts!" Bashir shouted. What if the terrorists came back again, or if the murderer was right now prowling the Promenade? "You two," he said, pointing to the officers nearest to him, "come with me. And you," he pointed to two others, "see to the fire. Everyone else get back to your posts."

The two he'd appointed to the fire raced for extinguishers from the freight conduits that ran behind the shops. The others began to obey, walking away from the fire back to their posts. They walked slowly and looked back over their shoulders, but they obeyed. Bashir could see a beam of light on the floor beneath the smoke, and he waved for the first two to follow him. The floor crunched beneath their feet as they stepped on the glass and pieces of the walls.

A Starfleet security officer lay facedown on the deck, his light was six feet away. He was alive. Checking the tricorder to see that there was no injury to the spine, Bashir gently turned the man over. He was covered in blood and breathing shallowly. Glass from the shop windows had cut his face and neck. One large fragment was lodged in the officer's chest. His uniform was burnt.

Bashir began to treat him there, removing the glass and using a coagulation activator to stop the bleeding from the wound in his chest. One arm was broken and Bashir immobilized it. When he was sure the man was stabilized, he told the two men with him to carry the man to the Infirmary. He heard footsteps coming loud and fast. He looked up just as all twelve beams of light converged on the newcomers.

* * *

Sisko slowed down when he saw the doctor. Two officers were carrying another, and Bashir was walking alongside. Beyond them smoke billowed from the clothier's shop, and an orange glow spilled onto the floor of the corridor. He could hear the extinguishers of those inside the shop. The air smelled of smoke and burnt clothing. Another bomb. How, with all the Security? How did they get by?

"He'll live," Bashir said as he passed him.

Sisko was thankful. Fourteen in one night was enough. It was too many. Kira rushed ahead of him into the still-burning shop. Sisko turned and followed the doctor to the Infirmary. There was a witness waiting there.

The Infirmary was brighter than most other rooms, simply because of all the people there who had palm beacons. But that wasn't saying much. It was still quite dark. Bashir was working quickly, straining over his patient in the inadequate light. A nurse was standing near him. Another, wrapped in a blanket, was assisting another patient who appeared to be treating his own wounds. The witness? Sisko could not see who it was because of the Bajoran security officer standing in front of him. Two others were leaving after having deposited their wounded comrade on the biobed.

Sisko stepped out of their way, thinking about the sitting patient. He wondered what this person was doing on the docking ring so late at night. Had he set the bomb himself and not gotten out of the way fast enough? And then the thought struck him that the man was treating himself. He knew medicine. Sisko could see his left hand, holding an instrument as he moved it slowly back and forth over his face. The nurse held a mirror. The security officer, still standing in the way, apparently held the light.

Sisko moved forward, apprehensive that this man might be the answer to at least one of their problems. Was he the murderer? But when Sisko saw his face that feeling subsided, and his jaw relaxed. He hadn't realized how hard he had clenched it. "Alex," he said, "are you alright?" The nurse turned around to see who had spoken, and Sisko recognized her as the one the Gidari had taken.

"Oh, it's nothing," Grant replied with a haggard smile. "Just minor scrapes." His voice shook just a little, and his eyes were red. A cut beneath his left eye began to disappear under the instrument. "Your good doctor has his hands full."

Sisko nodded. "What were you doing out so late?" he asked.

Grant stopped his work and looked away from the mirror. Sisko thought he could see the glimmer of sweat on his forehead. Strange, when it was so cold. "I was having trouble sleeping so I went for a walk around the docking ring for some exercise," Grant said. "The lights went out, and I was just stuck out there."

"Did you see anyone else on the docking ring?" Sisko asked, hoping that he had.

"Only at the beginning," Grant answered. "There were the two guards by the airlock. Other people were going to" he paused as if he were about to say something else and then finished, "their ships."

"Did you see anyone at Docking Port Four?" Sisko could tell that Grant was nervous. But why? Surely he had not set the bomb. That was unthinkable. Besides, they were Bajoran bombs. Everyone suspected Bajorans in the terrorism.

"Which one is port four?" Grant asked. He had returned to his work. "The one that caught fire, or blew up rather?"

"Yes, that one. Did you see anyone there?"

"No, no one," Grant answered. "It was so dark. I could only see the little light flickering . . . blinking. When it stopped blinking, the place exploded. It knocked me down. The second one pulled me forward. The wall dropped and almost caught me under it."

"The second?" Sisko stepped forward. "There were two explosions?"

"Yes," Grant said more confidently. "I'm sure of it. The first caused a fire, the second put it out. Breached the hull, I'd say."

"Yes," confirmed Sisko, "it did. Fourteen people were killed on the other side." He gestured toward the back wall where one drawer stood open.

Grant looked where Sisko pointed. His hand dropped to his lap. "I'm finished," he said quietly to the nurse. "Thank you for your help." The nurse nodded, but didn't say anything. She left him to put away the instruments.

Sisko watched Grant. His face looked distant now. He was shocked. He hadn't set the bomb. "I know it was dark, but is there anything else you can remember?"

"No," Grant didn't look at him. He was staring at the floor. He spoke slowly. "Just the light. It was small and red. It was the bomb." He slipped down off the biobed.

"You have to stay here tonight. Getting back to the _Ranger _would be complicated. The airlock doors won't open."

Grant looked up at him. "No, I can't stay. I . . . I really need to get back." He was speaking faster. He wrung his hands nervously. "They'll be wondering where I am. They know I left. I can't stay here."

The Bajoran officer had been watching the exchange. Sisko ordered him to escort Dr. Grant to some guest quarters. Grant was about to protest, but Sisko held up a hand to stop him. "There's no way to get you back there. There's no transporter and there's no communications to call your ship. You'll have to stay until morning."

* * *

Inara sat on the edge of her bed and stared into the darkness. Of course, she could have lights. She could have anything she wanted. But then someone, like those barbaric Klingons, might see the light and tell the station's authorities where to find her. She already knew that they'd told them about the bomb. The station's sensors worked fine, but only for her. Anyway, she didn't mind the darkness. She remembered a poem her brother had written before he was killed.

I've seen darkness fall like snow  
And wrap around me like a blanket, tight.  
A softer warmth than the brightest light,  
A deeper dark than that of night.

I've known darkness as a friend.  
Silently listening, it sat by my side  
It did not laugh, nor did it chide,  
But held me gently while I cried.

He was right. Darkness could save you, comfort you. No one saw your weakness in the dark. He would have been a poet, if the Cardassians hadn't been there. Inara couldn't remember the times before the Cardassians. She was born into the Occupation. It was all she had known. But her brother had fought for the dream of their past. And she had followed him. He had died. His future was gone just like the past.

Inara was beginning to think that his fight had been futile. He'd won against the Cardassians, that's true. But what good was it now? Bajor would lose everything that was Bajor. There was no future worth having. And no one to share it with. Inara fought hard just to remember what her brother looked like. She had forgotten the names of her parents. Liian was the last, her last reason.

Inara shivered in the cold and tried to decide just exactly why she kept going. Why not raise the temperature back up and turn on the lights and let the Federation have their space station? In the end they'd have it. Bajor was tired of fighting and would lay down and surrender in time. The Federation spoke with sweet words, and the majority of her people would follow their saviors into godless oblivion.

She couldn't really stop them. Her group was small. Even more so now that Targo Hern and his brother were dead. There was only herself and Theel on the station. So why didn't she just play along? Give up? Enjoy the peace the Federation held out as bait and live the good life for a change?

No, she couldn't do that. She still loved the Prophets. She would continue for their sake until she was dead. She just wasn't sure in which direction to continue. She'd always had a hard time listening to her pagh. It spoke so quietly that she couldn't hear what it said. She was already on this path, right or wrong. So until she heard her pagh tell her a better way, she'd continue. Besides, she had Liian to think about.

Either the Elders had killed him, or someone else did. And she meant to find out who. She would stay that long. She could hold them off that long. O'Brien wasn't good enough to stop her before then. She realized that Security could find Liian's killer much faster with the computer up and running. The killer had used the darkness, too. But the Prophets came before even Liian. Then, when they caught her, she could meet Liian and her brother again.

Inara laid back on the bed and tried to see her brother's face. He was tall and strong, or did she just like to remember him so? He had straight blond hair, swept back over his head. She saw his dark eyes shining with conviction and with the tears he cried for his people. She heard his voice reciting a poem about the beautiful landscape he had never seen. And she felt the tears roll down her face.

* * *

Kira Nerys knelt on the floor in the freight conduit that ran behind the clothier's shop. The whole back wall of the shop had been blown out along with the window in front. She sifted through the debris half-heartedly, running a tricorder over every piece of metal, plastic, and cloth. But she doubted that it would do any good. They wouldn't find anything they didn't find before. They had an intact bomb already. And the bomber would not have left fingerprints or even enough to run a DNA trace. Even if he had, they'd need the computer to find it.

Kira sat back on her heels and rubbed her eyes. When would it end? It wasn't even so much these particular terrorists. It was all of them. When would her people put away the bombs and deception and learn peace again? They'd been fighting so long that they'd forgotten how to live any other way.

Kira wanted as much as anyone for Bajor to be free and independent. It was free now, but it could not be independent. Not yet. Without the Federation, the Cardassians or some other aggressive race would take advantage of Bajor's weakness to plunder the planet again and assume control of the wormhole. _The Celestial Temple_, she corrected herself. Bajor could not defend herself. This station couldn't defend itself. It was the strength and reputation of the Federation that kept the aggressors at bay.

The shop was ruined, again. Garak would not be happy. But Kira didn't really care what the Cardassian tailor thought. She, and everyone else on the station, believed-- no, knew--that he was a spy for the Cardassians. It was better that his shop was bombed than anyone else's. Perhaps he would feel compelled now to use his talents to help them find the terrorists. No, he would never admit to those talents. And she wouldn't want to use a Cardassian to catch Bajorans, no matter what they had done.

Kira tried hard to think of a way to stop them, to track them, somehow. Without the computer she could not track their movements. Without the computer she could not even check the profiles of known members of radical factions on the station. She thought for a moment. She could detain people for questioning . . . after the doors were opened and the turbolifts began to function again. She could not think of any other way. She checked the time. 0230. It was going to be a long day.

* * *

Chief of Operations Miles O'Brien was having a bad day. And it hadn't hardly even really started. He'd been up all night, and all day the day before as well. He'd been wrestling all night with the computer, trying to get the temperature and lights back up, the communications back online. Everything. The only things that worked were the fusion reactors and life support. Everything else had been pulled down.

Or else someone wanted to make it look like they'd been pulled down. The terrorists, it was clear, had set the atmosphere in the security cell to kill Targo Hern. He was one of them, O'Brien and Kira had concluded, and they didn't want him to talk. But the computer, which was functioning at the time, had not registered any commands to change the atmosphere, or to take the transporter offline. The terrorists had control of the computer, and that was enough to give O'Brien a bad day.

His stomach yearned for breakfast, but, as yesterday, he first had to get the replicators working. That had made him think. The terrorists might just be hungry, too. Surely, they'd use the replicators, just as they'd used the transporter before, with no record of its use. So their trick was, if he was right, that the computer was still working. Everything really was, but only the terrorists had access to it. And to have that kind of control they had to be inside the central computer. So he had to find them there.

But that was proving difficult. They didn't want him in. He tried opening the doors to the central computer core manually, but they refused to budge. He tried the access crawlways and ventilation shafts, but they were sealed off. Technically, as Chief of Operations, he could override any order the computer had been given to keep him out of the room. But of course, he'd need access to the computer first.

So he was back where he started, trying to get the individual systems of the computer functioning again. O'Brien was not having a nice day, but he admired the handiwork he was seeing. Neither yesterday's problems nor today's had been a simple matter of turning off the individual functions of the computer. Whoever was doing this knew what they were doing. They crossed circuits and bypassed protocols until the computer actually damaged itself with too much energy here, too little there. And every terminal or display on the station had been cut off. The only constants were the fusion reactors. The terrorists knew better than to tamper with those. That would destroy the whole station and all of the Bajoran residents as well.

He needed coffee. Keiko knew just how he liked it. He thought of her still sleeping. He wished he was sleeping beside her. "I want whoever did this," he said to his assistant.

"Me, too," the Bajoran engineer said. She was kneeling beside him, handing him tools.

He himself had his head stuck into the communications station on Ops. "Yeah, but I can't decide if I want him in prison or working for me."

His assistant didn't laugh. He could see her tense up. "Whatever you just did, do it again," she said urgently.

"What did I just do?" O'Brien asked. He'd been doing lots of things. Which one did she want repeated?

"I don't know, but the lights in the Commander's office flickered."

The lights in Sisko's office had nothing to do with communications, but O'Brien didn't argue. "I'll do it again," he said. It was a start.

* * *

Dax sat up in her chair and stretched her arms. She had not gotten out of her lab in time and chose to stay there rather than try to make it back to her quarters for the night. She had slept sitting up in the chair, and her neck ached from it. She wasn't quite sure she was awake. It was an odd sensation, and she had to put her hand to her eyes to make sure they were open. She'd heard the bomb earlier. But she had reasoned that there was little she could have done. Security was on the Promenade.

Dax stood up and stretched her legs and then began to fumble around the computer console for her tricorder. She had to be careful not to spill anything. The greenish Gidari chemical had shown properties that would suggest it could be administered simply by contact with epidermis. As harmless as it was, it was a risk she did not want to take.

As she felt around, a blue light filled the room, revealing the tricorder half a meter from her left hand. Dax forgot the tricorder and spun around quickly. But the light had already faded. She could see nothing. Subconsciously, she held her breath and listened for the sound of breathing, footsteps, anything. But there was nothing.

_Maybe they just beamed something out_, she thought. She released her breath slowly, quietly so that it didn't make a sound. But she felt that someone was, indeed, in the room with her. Dax began to back up, heading toward where she knew her door would be. "What do you want?" she asked, forcing herself to remain calm.

No one answered. She took another step back, running her hand along the console. Something blocked her path. She jumped, and someone grabbed her arms, pulling them tightly behind her. The Gidari. "What do you want?" she repeated.

There was an answer this time, but she couldn't understand it. It was a woman's voice, and she spoke in a strange language. Dax tensed and pulled against the grip on her arms. The person behind her changed grips, using one hand to hold her arms back. His other hand grasped her forehead, tilting it back so that her neck was exposed.

"Quiet," the woman's voice said, "or we will make you quiet."

Bashir had told her about the device he'd seen on his nurse's neck, and she'd seen for herself the damage it did from the tricorder reading he had taken of Tsingras. She kept quiet. They hadn't killed Bashir or the nurse, so they wouldn't kill her now. She hoped.

She felt a smooth, silky cloth brush against her jaw and heard a soft hiss. Almost instantly she began to feel heavy, as if her legs were not strong enough to hold her weight. Only the hand on her forehead kept her head from falling forward onto her chest. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the floor. The man behind her let her fall. She was still awake. At least, she thought she was still awake. The lab had no viewports to let even the meager light from the distant stars into the room.

A bar of low blue light began to glow about four feet off the floor. Behind it a hand was visible, but the arm disappeared into a loose, purple sleeve. Everything beyond that was covered in darkness. Dax watched, motionless as the blue light slowly swung over the computer where she had been working. It stopped, growing deeper in color, over the tricorder, the one Bashir had used to scan Tsingras's body. The light stayed still but the cloak moved almost imperceptibly. A red beam flashed forward, encompassing the tricorder. The tricorder sparked and blazed brightly for a moment before disappearing into the darkness.

In the same way, the blue bar found the samples of the Gidari chemicals, and the red beam destroyed them. The bar continued around the room and only glowed brighter as it hovered above her. The Gidari was apparently satisfied, for the light from the bar disappeared. A larger light of the same color filled the room, and Dax caught a glimpse of three cloaked Gidari before they vanished with the light.

_It must be the green one_, Dax thought slowly. She felt no pain, which meant the two had not been mixed. The green liquid thickened the blood, slowing the circulation. So her body was not receiving the same levels of oxygen. She felt heavy and lethargic. But it would pass. Still, she thought it would be best to try to reach the Infirmary.

Dax moved her arm, slowly drawing it across the floor until it was near her chest. Lifting her elbow was like lifting weights, but she managed to brace her hand beneath her. Lifting herself was even harder. She weighed as much as a runabout, it seemed. She fell back to the floor when her elbow buckled under the strain. Gritting her teeth, she tried again. She only managed to roll herself over onto her back. But her shoulder brushed against the wall.

The minutes passed quickly, and Dax was still on the floor. She turned herself over again with effort and pulled her knees up toward her chest. She used the wall as a brace and lifted herself with her hands and knees. Eventually, she was standing, or rather leaning, against the wall, scratching at the panel that hid the manual release lever for the door.

* * *

Sisko had managed to crawl to Ops by way of the access crawlways just in time to see all the lights come on. They were the only things on at the moment, but it was something to celebrate. "Chief!" he exclaimed.

O'Brien, having just crawled out from under a computer console, didn't look so happy. "Yes, but I was working on communications. It's all crossed over. Maybe I can get it all running, but it'll take a week to sort it out right again."

"So if you work on the science station, will the replicators come back?" Sisko asked with a sarcastic grin.

"I certainly hope so," O'Brien answered. "I'm starving."

"I've got something!" came a call from somewhere near the floor. The master console flickered weakly a few times and went dark again. But then it began to glow, showing distinctly a circular diagram of the station in brilliant colors. Apparently the sensors had come online because the display clearly showed that docking clamps had been released at Docking Port Nine. A vessel was pulling away from the station.

"I don't suppose we have communications," Sisko said. He couldn't blame them for leaving. Why wait around for your ship to be blown apart? The station was unable to make them stay. But Sisko hoped they weren't taking the murderer along with them.

O'Brien shook his head. The engineers and technicians were still working and a few other consoles began to come online.

"Tractor beam?"

"No, sir."

"Who were they?" Sisko asked. The main viewscreen had come on, and he was watching the ship pull away. "Tellarites?"

"Yes, sir," O'Brien answered. "And the Aresian ship is going too."

"Can you stop them?"

"No."

"Let them go." Sisko was not grinning any more. He couldn't even talk to them as they left, make apologies, ask that they stay. The Bajoran reputation was bad enough thanks to radicals and terrorists. Now the possibility of bad reports and rumors was leaving the station again. Sisko felt he had failed. The Bajorans didn't deserve that. He believed in them as a people, and it hurt him personally when they were judged by the acts of a relative few. "Keep working, Chief. I want the terrorists found."


	9. Chapter Nine

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Nine**

Dr. Grant threw off the blanket and clutched the sides of the bed as if it was a raft being tossed about by a rough sea. He opened his eyes, but the darkness surrounded him. He couldn't sleep. The dreams were too vivid. The fire, Helen running into the house, and himself, shaking his wounded son. He saw clearly Helen's death as if he'd been in the house with her. He heard the splitting of wood and the cracking of the flames as the floor gave way beneath her just when she was dropping Julian from the window. He heard her screams, felt her pain as the blaze engulfed her, burning her hair, her clothes, her skin.

Even now he couldn't force the vision from his eyes, though beyond the flames the blackness waited. Tears stung Grant's eyes. "Make it stop!" he screamed. There was no one to hear him. "Helen! Forgive me! Please! Helen!"

His right arm reached out instinctively for the drawer beside his bed. He'd make it stop. He'd make the blackness come to him, enter him, instead of teasing him from behind the fire. But the drawer was empty. The mattress! He'd put it under the mattress. Grant slid down and crouched beside the bed. He ran his hands under the mattress, but felt nothing but cold metal.

He began to panic. Where was it? He always kept it nearby. He needed it. The dresser? Grant ran to the opposite wall but his hands found no dresser there. Like a blind man, Grant pulled himself along the wall, feeling for the furniture that should have been along that wall.

He found the dresser, after stumbling into a table and chair. He opened the drawers quickly. They were empty. _My things_, he thought. _Where are my things_? His clothes, his possessions, where were they? And where was his hypospray? He needed it.

Grant searched every room, wondering how his quarters had shrunk and why there were no lights. But he found nothing. He found his way back to the bed, to the blanket on the floor. He sat there on the floor, clutching the blanket as he cried.

* * *

It took all the strength Dax had to push the lever up. The door slid open, but she again fell to the floor in the process. She didn't mind too much, except that it hurt to fall. She would have had to crawl along the floor anyway. She felt light-headed, but that was the only part of her that felt light. She was so weak that moving her arm was a difficult task. Standing up would have been impossible.

She tried to call out for help to anyone who might be in the corridor. But her voice was just as weak, and she could not muster the energy required for more than a whisper. She was worried too, when she found the strength to think at all, that someone just might be out there. Someone who wasn't supposed to be there. She took a little comfort in the darkness that hid her from others as well as it hid others from her. Bracing herself for another effort, she pulled herself another foot across the floor. _At this rate_, she thought, _I should get to the Infirmary by next week_. Actually, she knew she wouldn't make it at all. She wasn't sure how much time had passed, but she knew the drug would wear off in less than four hours.

* * *

Dr. Bashir felt, as tired as he was, that he was in the right place. He had wanted to practice frontier medicine. This was it, and he was prepared for it, when other doctors might have thrown up their hands in frustration. He was working in the dark, with only a palm beacon held overhead by Nurse Reyna. He could not use the computer's diagnostic or analytical equipment or any instrument that was dependant on the computer. He had only what he could use with his hands.

But it was the light that annoyed him. No matter how Reyna held it, it never spilled into the wound in the needed location. Pieces of glass had penetrated the security officer's chest and pierced his lung. Ilona continuously monitored the patient's vital signs with a tricorder she held in her hand. He had lost a lot of blood and would continue to do so until the last piece of glass was removed and Bashir could close the wounds. Already his blood pressure was dropping.

"A little to the left," Bashir said, hoping that a new position would improve the light that shone into the wound.

Of course, Reyna did not answer, but obediently moved the light. As she did, a dim light flashed from overhead for one second before disappearing again. Everyone froze, and the light returned. Without a word, Ilona took the palm beacon, Bashir returned to his work, and Reyna left to manually turn up the overhead lights to their daylight levels. Everyone squinted for a moment, but continued with their tasks. Ilona turned off the beacon and placed it on the next biobed.

The evenness of the overhead lights was just what he needed, and Bashir began to carefully remove the last shard of glass that had lodged itself into the patient's left lung. That done he began to close the remaining wounds, beginning with the punctured lung.

"Doctor," Ilona said calmly, "his pulse is dropping."

Reyna moved quickly, and Bashir could see the man's heart rate on the tricorder propped up beside the bed. It was indeed beating slower. It weakly contracted two more times and then quit altogether. "Inaprovaline," Bashir said, watching for a reaction. He heard the hiss of the hypospray and waited. Nothing. "Again."

Still nothing happened. The patient wasn't breathing. "Try the chloromydride." There was urgency in Bashir's voice. The man shouldn't be dying. He was dying because he was cold. They were unable to keep him sufficiently warm and operate at the same time. With the improved lighting, they could see the gray tint in his skin.

This time his heart responded weakly to the stimulant, but it wasn't enough. "He needs air," Bashir said.

"How," Ilona asked, "without the respirator?"

Bashir didn't look up, but went to work on trying to keep the man's heart pumping. "Tilt his head back," he said, "pinch his nose and blow into his mouth."

Ilona didn't argue and obeyed. The man's lungs filled with air.

"Now wait," Bashir said. He counted to himself as he watched the tricorder to see if the man was breathing on his own. "Reyna, rub his legs. We've got to get him warm. Ilona, again."

She repeated the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Without the tricorder, it would have been imperceptible, but he indeed began to breathe shallowly again after exhaling the air Ilona had given him. Bashir sighed, and worked quickly to close the remaining wounds in the man's chest. When he had finished, Ilona bandaged the patient, and Bashir put two more blankets around him, tucking them down beneath him at the sides.

Bashir checked the tricorder again. The pulse was slow but gaining strength. His breathing was becoming more regular, and his blood pressure was rising steadily. Color was returning to his face, as well. "I think we did it," he said, as he peeled off the surgical gloves and placed them into the bowl that held the shards of glass. "Let's give him some corophizine to guard against infection."

"Yes, Doctor," Ilona said. She prepared the hypospray, and Reyna went away to fetch some more blankets. It was still cold.

* * *

Kira had been ordered to bed by Sisko, and she had grudgingly obeyed. It had felt good to lie down and close her eyes, but she had felt guilty for it, too. She was supposed to be finding the terrorists. She had felt helpless to do that lying on her bed in her darkened quarters. But she had had to admit, she had felt helpless to stop them in Ops as well. And there wasn't anything in Garak's shop to help either. So she had stayed in her quarters, and she had even gone to sleep. For about two hours.

Kira sat up on her bed and reached out for the communications panel near her bed. Of course, it didn't work. So she didn't bother trying the lights. They wouldn't work either. She lifted her blanket and shook from the chill. She pulled on her uniform and boots, grabbed her phaser and a palm beacon, and pulled the lever that opened her door. She was surprised to find light on the other side. She threw the beacon back inside and waited to see if the door would close on its own when she stepped away. It did not. She closed it and ran toward the crossover bridge that would take her toward Ops. Without the doors it would still take her at least a quarter of an hour, but she'd be faster with light.

She'd had a dream, and it had given her an idea. She had seen the station, in her dream, from the outside as if she were floating above it, swimming in the stillness and silence of space. And now she knew how they could catch the terrorists. Maybe sleeping had been a good idea after all.

* * *

Commander Sisko blew hot air into his hands and then rubbed them together quickly. "How about some heat, Chief?"

"Well, normally that would be an easy problem," O'Brien answered. "I'd just repair any malfunctions in environmental control in the life support systems. But at this rate, I don't know where that is."

"What are you working on now?" Sisko asked.

"This should be the power control to the replicators, but it seems to be the internal sensor array."

"Well, that's useful at any rate."

"I found something!" one of the other engineers called.

"What is it?" O'Brien yelled back.

"Not sure, but it could be the replicators," the assistant replied.

"If it is, I want some coffee," O'Brien yawned. As if it had heard him, the replicator on the far wall began to hum. Its black surfaces began to light up with blue and green lights.

"Coffee break!" Sisko exclaimed. He was the first to reach the replicator, mainly because he was the only one sitting down. Everyone else in Ops, about half a dozen engineers and technicians, seemed to be buried beneath consoles and wires. Sisko ordered his coffee and waited to see if it would appear.

It was slow in coming, but the replicator did produce a white ceramic mug of steaming coffee. Sisko wrapped his nearly numb fingers around the warm cup and took a taste as everyone looked on with hopeful eyes. It was perfect. "Good work, Lieutenant."

Everyone cheered and clapped the young Bajoran officer on the back in congratulations and gratitude. It would be much easier to go on working now.

* * *

Moving was becoming easier, and Dax found she could almost crawl. She'd made considerable progress already, pulling with her arms and pushing with her knees. But she'd also nearly exhausted herself. She stopped for a moment to rest, pulling herself up to lean against the wall. Her legs were left in an uncomfortable position, but she couldn't muster the energy to move them.

How many hours? she wondered. Surely it couldn't last much longer. She had no way of knowing. She wasn't even sure when the Gidari had come. Her fingers and ears were numb from the cold. Now that there was light, she could see her breath in front of her face. She felt worse sitting up. It made her dizzy. She thought she could hear footsteps. The sounds became louder, coming nearer.

Dax was near a corridor junction, and the sound seemed to be coming toward her from the crossing corridor. She waited to see who it was. She realized she was helpless. If it was a terrorist, or worse, she could hardly run from them or fight them off. She watched the junction and waited.

The sounds moved nearer and rang out in the empty corridor. Dax tensed as they got close, but she kept her eyes on the corridor. A figure in a red-orange Bajoran uniform ran by. "Kira!" Dax called, when she noticed the short-cropped red hair.

But it was too quiet, too late. Kira was gone, running down the corridor away from her. She could still hear the boots ringing on the station's metal floor. Then they stopped. Maybe she had heard. "Kira!" Dax yelled again. It wasn't really yelling, but it was the best she could do. Her voice obeyed her, but weakly. She listened to see if the footsteps would return to the junction or would continue down the corridor.

She heard nothing. And she started to wonder if maybe she'd been mistaken. She was dizzy and still light-headed. Perhaps she had hallucinated as well. Perhaps she still was. Kira stepped cautiously from around the corner. She saw Dax and then walked quickly toward her.

"Dax." She looked worried. "What happened? Are you alright?" She knelt down beside her.

"I'm okay," Dax said, wanting to sound reassuring. But instead she sounded drunk. Her words slurred together. "The Gidari came for a visit. I'll be fine, but I'm very weak. I want to get to the Infirmary." It took so much energy to talk, to force the air from her lungs.

"Can you walk?"

Dax shook her head. She didn't want to speak any more.

"I'll find some Security, and we'll carry you there. Stay here," Kira said as she stood. "I'll be right back."

"Where would I go?" Dax asked and smiled. Kira smiled back, and then she was gone again. Dax could hear her boots on the deck growing fainter. She was glad she hadn't been hallucinating.

* * *

Dr. Grant sat on the floor, hugging his knees in toward his chest. His head rested on his knees, and he rocked slowly back and forth. As he rocked forward, his heels touched the floor and pushed him back the other way. And when he rocked back, he felt the cold surface of the door on his back.

He realized now that he was not in his own quarters on the _Ranger_. He remembered what had happened earlier in the night. He'd been given guest quarters on the station. His hypospray wasn't here. It was back on the ship. And there was no way to get there. So he cried, and rocked himself back and forth.

As he rocked back the door behind him swished open. He fell onto his back and had to cover his eyes against the light in the hall. He lay there for a moment before he realized what had happened. He was free. He could go back to his own quarters. He could go to sleep.

Grant scrambled to his feet and tried to remember how to get to the _Ranger_. Where were the turbolifts? Grant chose to go to the right. He would find a lift eventually. It may take longer to get back, but that didn't matter now. He was free. His footsteps sounded loudly in the empty corridors, but he didn't care. He was almost running, watching the numbers on the doors as he ran past them. He came to a corridor junction and panicked again for a moment. Which way? He chose again the right and ran on.

When he did come to a turbolift, the doors opened for him. He stepped inside, and the doors closed again. But it didn't move. It was waiting for him to speak. Where was the ship? Docking Port 4? No. That was the bomb. Then he remembered. "Upper Pylon Two." But still the lift didn't move. They still didn't work. He was trapped again.

Grant sat down again on the floor and returned to his rocking, staring at the darkened control panel on the turbolift wall.

* * *

Dr. Bashir yawned and closed the drawer. He had finished examining the Teldarian woman. Her body was growing warmer, which worried him. But not as much as the Ferengi and the Bajoran boy. The Teldarians had been frozen in space, only now were they beginning to thaw. The two murder victims had been there for days already and had spent the whole night out of stasis. Things would start to get ugly if power wasn't brought back up soon.

Before opening the next drawer, Bashir scanned the security officer with his tricorder. With the added blankets, he was getting better. He needed blood, but without the equipment and computer, Bashir couldn't give it to him. But his vital signs were stronger, and there was no sign of infection. So Bashir returned to the morgue and pulled open another drawer, revealing the Teldarian captain. Bashir pulled on a new pair of gloves and began to examine the body.

The door opened, and Bashir turned to see who had entered. He hoped there hadn't been another bomb. He was surprised to see Kira and a security officer carrying Dax in their arms. "Don't worry, Julian," Dax said slowly, as they laid her down on a biobed. "I'll be fine."

Bashir looked to Kira, "What happened?" He began to examine Dax with his tricorder. But before she could answer him the tricorder told him.

"The Gidari."

"She'll be fine," Bashir said. "It's the green one."

"I told you so," Dax teased Kira.

"What did they want, Jadzia?" Bashir asked.

But Kira was confused. "Green one?"

"The chemicals," Dax said, ignoring Kira. "They destroyed the tricorder, too."

Bashir nodded. He wasn't surprised. He was glad the computer was down. They might have tried to destroy that as well. It, too, would contain information about the chemicals. He turned to Kira. "There were two chemicals we analyzed from the Gidari. One was blue. That's what they gave my nurse. It's a truth drug, and it's quite painful. The other was green. It thickens the blood, but has no serious side effects. If we can trust your simulations," he teased Dax.

"She couldn't even walk," Kira argued. "You don't call that a serious side effect?"

"Lack of oxygen. Oxygen is energy. Thicker blood flows slower, carrying less oxygen. Less energy. It'll pass. It can't last more than four hours. She'll be fine, really." He looked back to Dax. "How long has it been?"

"Not sure, Julian," she answered. She sounded exhausted.

"Alright," Bashir replied. He studied the tricorder, trying to remember the readout from the computer the night before. "It looks like at least two hours. We'll just wait it out. Get some sleep."

But he needn't have said anything. Dax was already asleep.

"I'd like some Security here and in her lab if you can spare it. When those computers come back up the Gidari might come back. They don't want us to have any information about them. We've used the computer to analyze those chemicals."

"Right now, I don't know if we can spare any," Kira said. "We haven't got enough to prevent three bombings in one night. But we'll see what we can do when the computer's back up. Take this." Kira handed him her phaser. Her eyes looked tired, but her features still looked defiant. "But I've got an idea on how to stop the terrorists."

"Really?" Bashir took the phaser, checked its charge, set it to heavy stun, and put it on a cabinet near Dax's biobed.

"Tell you about it later. I've got to get to Ops."

Bashir wished her good luck. Kira took one last look at Dax, appeared satisfied that she'd be fine, and headed out the door. Bashir returned to the Teldarian captain.

* * *

Kira arrived in Ops and thought she'd arrived in a war zone. Consoles were taken apart, viewscreens removed, circuits exposed. Dirty engineers and technicians walked around and over the dismantled equipment. "Where's the chief?" she called out over the noise.

An arm emerged from beneath the science station and pointed toward the engineering station. "Somewhere over there, I think," a woman's voice answered.

Kira followed where the hand had pointed. She tried not to step on anything. A pair of legs stuck out from a hole in the wall. "Chief?" Kira asked. "Is that you?"

"It's me," the chief called back. "I thought you were supposed to be sleeping. What can I do for you, Major?"

"I've got an idea on how to stop them."

O'Brien quickly backed out from under the console he was working on and stood up. "What kind of idea?"

"Where's Sisko?" Kira asked.

"In his office last I saw," O'Brien said. They both walked quickly to the prefect's office above the Operations Center. Kira knocked and the door opened.

Sisko was sitting behind his desk. He raised his eyebrows when he saw his Bajoran First Officer. "I thought I ordered you to sleep."

"I did," Kira answered excitedly. "And it gave me an idea."

"I'm listening," Sisko said,

Kira nodded and began. "Why don't we use the runabouts. Their computers are independent of the station. We can use their sensors and their transporter beams."

"And their communications systems," Sisko added. He thought for a moment and nodded. "Do it, as soon as you think you can get to them. Chief," Sisko continued, "how's it going out there?"

"We've got the environmental controls. The temperature is rising. We should be up to normal within the hour. I found communications. Lieutenant Mir is still working on the security sensor grid. The turbolifts should be working under manual control."

"Sounds like progress." Sisko smiled. "Keep it up."

"And Commander," Kira began again, "Dax is in the Infirmary." She spoke quickly to assure him that she was alright. "Doctor Bashir says it's nothing serious. But it was the Gidari. They came into her lab and destroyed some equipment containing information about them. They gave her a drug. Bashir says it will wear off."

"Thank you, Major."

"It'll take time to get the runabouts out, Major," O'Brien commented as the two of them stepped out of the office. "We can get the doors open, but we still have to get to the docking clamps, the pressure systems, the bay doors and such."

Kira nodded thoughtfully. "Get the station's systems running here first. They're more important. The runabouts will really only be useful when the terrorists strike again."

"And, most likely, that won't be until tonight," O'Brien finished.

Kira nodded again. That gave her time to think up a plan. Once she had the runabout, what would she do with it? She wanted to catch them before they set another bomb. She thought for a moment. Then a thought struck her. "Chief, no one died tonight."

O'Brien looked at her. He was about to remind her of the bomb in Docking Port Four. But she spoke again.

"I mean besides the Teldarians. No one died. No murders."

"None that we know of," O'Brien corrected. But he liked what she was getting at. "But maybe Targo was our man."

"Let's hope so. That'd be one less problem to deal with today." Behind them Sisko's doors opened. He walked out across the busy Operations Center and toward the exit. Kira assumed he was going to check on Dax for himself.

* * *

A low hum filled the turbolift and caused Dr. Grant to raise his head. And when he did he saw the control panel lit up and lettered in Cardassian script. His mind was calmer now, and he could think clearly. The turbolift was working. He stood up and studied the lift's controls. Within a few minutes he was able to direct the lift towards Upper Pylon Two. The turbolift began to move. It was slow and rough compared to the Federation's lifts. The Cardassians were so utilitarian. They seemed to care nothing for the comfort of their crews.

The turbolift came to a sudden stop, which almost threw him off his feet. The doors whooshed open much too quickly and slammed shut behind him after he'd exited. Grant stared at it in surprise for a moment. He was surprised that it had worked at all. But it had brought him, and safely enough, too. He turned and walked toward the airlock and home.

The airlock was also of utilitarian Cardassian design, a large circular door surrounded by the same gray metal walls. But through the windows in the gear-like door, bright light and pastel colors shone. The _Ranger _was comfort, so unlike this station. Starfleet took much better care of its people. It was a whole different philosophy, Grant mused. Starfleet knew that a comfortable, happy crew gave its loyalty more freely, more strongly, and performed to the best of their abilities voluntarily, which made everyone's job easier.

One of the guards at the airlock smiled when he saw Grant. "Good morning," he said. He was the station's guard.

Grant searched his memory for a moment. But he came up empty. He didn't know the man. "Good morning," he replied. Then he remembered that he must look a fright, as if he hadn't slept at all. That was why the man had smiled.

The door did not open when Grant neared it. "Name, please," the other guard asked.

"Dr. Alexander Grant."

"Ah, yes, sir." The guard turned and opened the door. "Welcome back, Doctor."

Grant stepped through the door and sighed. That station weighed heavily on him. He felt weaker there, drained by the dark colors and lack of luxury. He already felt lighter in spirit as he walked toward door that would open onto the _Ranger_.

The door opened itself before he could reach it. Dr. Maylon stood on the other side. He looked back at Grant, just a little startled. But his eyes brightened, and he smiled a welcome. "Dr. Grant, just getting back?" he asked.

Grant stepped through the door. "I got stranded on that station when the power shut down. They would not allow me to leave until it came back up," he said, defending himself and his appearance. But then he thought to turn the tables and question the doctor. "You're going out quite early, aren't you?"

"Well, I was hoping to have a Bajoran breakfast," Maylon answered, clasping his hands together. "Is the Promenade up and running yet."

"I don't know I wasn't on the Promenade. But the turbolifts only just became operational. And they must be controlled manually. I'm afraid you won't find much on the Promenade this morning. If you'll excuse me," Grant said, backing away down the corridor. "I did not have a good night's sleep, and I'd really like to rectify the situation."

"Sleep well," Maylon said, still smiling. Then he stepped through the airlock door.

* * *

Dr. Bashir waited for the turbolift to come to a complete stop and stepped off. He descended the stairs, planting his feet purposefully on each step until he reached the floor of Ops. Chief O'Brien had looked up by then, and he had caught Kira's attention as well. They had been checking the readouts and displays on the master console.

"I have a philosophy," he began, spreading his arms wide as he leaned them against the table, "about medicine: Sick people come to the Infirmary to get well. Not vice versa."

O'Brien and Kira said nothing. They exchanged confused glances.

"Now, I will give you a choice," Bashir continued. "Either make restoring power to the stasis chambers in my Infirmary a priority or find me somewhere else to put them and a way to get them there."

"Them?" Kira asked.

"Yes, them," Bashir replied, sitting down opposite them. "You know, one Ferengi, expired three days ago; two Bajorans, expired in the last two days, and fourteen Teldarians, who expired only just last night. Dead people don't keep fresh by themselves."

O'Brien nodded. "Okay, Julian. But I can't guarantee the stasis yet. Things are complicated up here. Everything's been crossed and confused. But, what I can do, right now, is give you a cargo bay. We can isolate its environmental controls from the rest of the station and lower the temperature."

"Fine," Bashir nodded back. "But how do we get them there? It would make an interesting parade down the Promenade, don't you think?"

O'Brien blew out his breath and thought for a moment.

"I don't suppose the transporter's almost up?" Kira asked hopefully.

O'Brien shook his head. "Can they wait a little while longer?" he asked the doctor.

"Oh, they're quite patient, really," Bashir quipped. "It's the rest of us that are anxious for them to go." Then he was serious. "But I suppose we could wait another hour. After that it risks becoming a health hazard. They'll have to be moved then."

"I'll see what I can do," O'Brien said, and he rose from the table. Bashir rose, too. But Kira caught his arm.

"How's Dax," she asked.

"She's fine," Bashir assured her. "Just resting. Another quarter of an hour and she'll be back to normal." _If the smell doesn't knock her out_, he thought. Really, he was exaggerating. The drawers in the morgue at the back of the Infirmary did protect them from the smell of the decomposing bodies to a certain extent. But he hadn't been exaggerating about the health risk they could cause. The drawers, without the computer to seal them, could only do so much. In another hour, things would begin to be intolerable.

Kira seemed satisfied and returned to her work. Bashir went back to the turbolift. He arrived on the Promenade several minutes later. When the doors opened, he found he was still a foot above the floor. He stepped down without giving it a second thought and headed for the Infirmary.

There weren't many people on the Promenade this morning, with the exception of Security. But it was early yet. Many were probably aware that most of the station's systems still weren't functioning. The temperature had returned to normal, the doors and lights worked, and one might say that the turbolifts were running. But many things vital to the safety of the residents and visitors were still not available, such as security sensors and communication.

Bashir was surprised then to see Maylon slowly strolling along the Promenade, staring at the damage caused to Garak's shop. "Maylon!" Bashir called.

Maylon turned and waited for Bashir to catch up. "Hey, Julian. How are things this morning?"

"Not very well, as you can see," Bashir replied. "I've been quite busy all night. You're out early."

"I like the Promenade." Maylon was smiling. He rubbed his hands together eagerly. "There's always some kind of action going on somewhere. Besides I've been looking for a certain Bajoran woman. Do you know Fareed Taleyn?"

"No," Bashir said. He did remember the name being mentioned about the time of the Bajoran boy's death. Yes, a former nurse from the camps. "Why are you looking for her?"

"If you'd seen her, you would know, Julian," Maylon answered. "Do you want some breakfast?"

"I don't know that anything is opened yet. And you'd probably have better luck with the replicators on the _Ranger_." Bashir stifled a yawn. "I really must get back to the Infirmary."

"How about lunch?" Maylon asked. "That is, if you're still awake."

"I'm sorry. I already have plans. I have a weekly lunch date."

Maylon winked and raised his eyebrows. He'd obviously gotten the wrong idea. "Who with?"

Bashir looked at the burnt-out shop. There was still blood on the floor not twenty feet from where they stood. "With the owner of this shop."

Maylon was surprised. He blew out some air. "You'd have more fun with me, I think. Whoever owns this shop won't be in a very good mood."

"Which is all the more reason I should meet with him for lunch," Bashir said. "Besides, he doesn't have many friends on the station. I really must be going, Maylon."

"See ya around, Julian." Maylon waved, with his left hand, and walked off again down the corridor.

Bashir looked at Garak's gutted shop. Bits of mannequins lay scattered on the floor. Everything was black from the smoke. It was a mess. But it wasn't the first time his shop had been bombed. And, because Garak was a Cardassian, Bashir thought that it would probably not be the last.

He wondered why Garak didn't just move on to somewhere else. It's true, Bashir was sure, that Garak was a spy. But he also knew that he was working freelance. Enabran Tain, the former head of the Cardassian's Obsidian Order, had been very emphatic about never wanting Garak to return to Cardassia. He hated him. It seemed the Cardassians didn't want him any more than the Bajorans. So why did he bother?

But Garak would never answer that question. He was never that straightforward. But, then, lunch wouldn't be as interesting if he was.

* * *

Inara wanted to see the damage. She was a little put out that the lights had been restored already. But then, she figured, O'Brien and the others would have been up all night working on bringing the systems back up. She was surprised to find just how much they had restored. The replicators, the turbolifts, the environmental systems--she was thankful for that one--and communications. She had seen an officer in the corridor talking into his communicator.

She felt better when the turbolift jerked to a stop. The Promenade was dead. There were few people out, except for Security. They were everywhere. But the shops were just opening and it was nearly nine o'clock. She noticed though that those that were open were Bajoran. It was the aliens who were worried.

Inara walked toward the temple. She would be able to see the Cardassian's shop from there. The clothier's shop was guarded by security officers who tried to get the staring people to go on about their business. Inara didn't stop to gawk but walked slowly, looking in as she passed. There wasn't much left. The entire front of the shop had been broken out, the walls torn. Inside she could see pieces of cloth and shards of metal. The Cardassian wouldn't be grinning today.

Her boss, Mr. Wayd, was just opening up. "I hope I'm not late," Inara said as she stepped inside the shop. "I wasn't sure what time it was when I woke up this morning." She began to help him unlock each of the cabinets and set out the jewelry.

"I wasn't sure myself, Taleyn," Wayd replied. He wasn't an old man, but he reminded her of her father, what she could remember of him. "I'm not even sure anyone will come in today. But one never knows." He hadn't looked up, but he did now. "Did you see the Cardassian's shop?"

Inara nodded.

"Better him than anyone else," Wayd commented. "Dima says that I shouldn't worry. The . . .," he hesitated with the word, "terrorists, they're only attacking non-Bajorans. But I think shutting down the station hurts Bajorans, too. A Bajoran security officer could have been killed last night. And what if someone became ill? How would we call for help? And what could the doctor do without the computer?"

Inara nodded thoughtfully. "Well, we managed without a computer in the camps. I didn't like the cold myself. Haven't we had to sleep in the cold long enough?"

"Exactly," Wayd agreed. "My wife thinks they're heroes. But I know that without the off-worlders, I'd have no business. Neither would any other Bajoran on this station. And we'd all still be living in the camps asking for handouts from the Federation. Things may not be perfect, but they're better than they were. At least we're free now."

Inara sighed. "Are we? Sometimes I'm not sure. Poor people are never really free."

"But we're not poor, Taleyn." Wayd smiled. "You have to look at things in relation to other things. We were poor during the Occupation. We had only what they gave us, and it was never enough. Now we can have more. We have to work for it, but it's there for us if we try. Look at the humans' planet, Earth. We could be like that one day. They don't even have money. They don't need it."

"We're nothing like them, though," Inara contended. "They've never had to go through what we have."

"Oh, but they have," Wayd argued. "You should read their history. They almost destroyed themselves. Several times. It's a wonder their civilization survived at all. And without the assistance of the Prophets. But they did survive, as we have. And they recovered, as we will. They moved forward. That's what we need to do."

Inara didn't want to agree or disagree. She didn't want to discuss her beliefs. That could only lead to trouble. She agreed with some of what he said. They were better off materially than they were under the Cardassians. But at least during the Occupation, her people had kept their eyes on the Prophets. The Prophets were all they'd had. Now material things were perhaps blocking their sight. A customer walked in and saved her from having to say something.

Inara smiled until she saw who it was. The officer from the _Ranger_. Maylon, wasn't it? He was looking at a bracelet through the glass counter top. "May I help you?" Inara asked.

"Uh, yes," Maylon answered, looking up. He acted surprised when he saw her. "Oh, Miss Taleyn. No, no, it's Fareed. Last names first, I remember."

"What can I help you with, sir?" Inara said. Wayd had been concerned at her rudeness, but he seemed to understand the officer's attitude. He went to the back room, leaving her to handle Maylon as she saw fit. Inara knew that he was showing that he trusted her.

"Please call me Maylon," Maylon pleaded. Then he returned to the bracelet. "I need a gift. My sister's birthday is coming up."

"And you want to send her gold?" Inara wasn't buying it. "Didn't you say your family was from Ahmossa IV? What would an Ahmossan want with gold?"

Maylon grinned widely. "Ah, you do remember me. I also said they were hypocrites. She'd love gold."

"You'll be going into the Gamma Quadrant, how would you get it to her? And why not get her something from there? It would be much more unique, I'm sure."

"Look, don't you want to make a sale?" Maylon had stopped smiling. He looked angry. "Why does it matter to you who I'm going to give it to or how I'm going to get it there?" He stopped and forced his smile to return. "Besides, I could always give it to you."

"I don't want it," Inara said flatly. "But if you want to buy it, you're welcome to it." Inara removed the bracelet from the glass case and held it up for his inspection. "Would you like it packaged as a gift?"

"That's better. Yes, please." He lay ten bars of gold-pressed latinum on the counter. Then he took the package and turned to leave.

"It doesn't cost that much," Inara called after him.

"I know," he answered as he stepped through the door.

* * *

As soon as communications were up, the angry calls resumed. Kira happily routed the worst of them to Sisko. She had felt a little guilty about that, but she reminded herself that it _was _his job as commander of the station. Kira took on the lighter ones. Many ships called in to ask what was being done to catch the Teldarians' murderers or to protect themselves. Many others wanted to leave the station. These Kira gave to Sisko. It was his decision anyway.

The _Gindarin_, Kira noted, never called and never requested clearance to leave. Kira thought about what Bashir had said about the computers. The Gidari still weren't satisfied or they would have left. "Kira to Odo."

"Yes, Major," Odo answered.

"Do we have any extra security we could put in Dax's lab and the Infirmary?" She knew he wouldn't be happy about her request.

"Major, I have three investigations going on at one time. I have to guard the docking ring and the Promenade and the habitat ring. In other words, the whole station."

Kira stopped him. "I'm worried about the Gidari. I don't like the fact that they can just pop onto our station any time they chose and kidnap our crew or destroy our equipment. I want to be able to catch them next time they try."

"Then I'm afraid, Major, you'll have to do so yourself. There's nothing I can do at the moment. I've got all my officers out as it is. There's none to spare."

"Right," Kira nodded. "Thanks anyway, Odo. Kira out." If there was anything Kira hated, it was having her hands tied. She felt helpless. They had covered the Promenade with Security and still, there was a bomb. And the bombers left no trace. Dax was attacked by the Gidari in her lab. And there was no way they could have been stopped and no way they could be stopped if they came again. But no one had been murdered. At least that was positive.

"I've got the security sensor grid," Lieutenant Mir announced, interrupting her thoughts. It was reassuring news.

"Good work," Kira said. "Let me see it."

Mir pressed a few controls on the console, and a diagram of the station lit up the screen. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary except for the highlighted areas showing bomb damage. Kira requested the computer to show her the positioning of security officers, and little circles of light lit up the diagram at nearly every level. But even they were stretched thin.

Someone could slip through. It was inevitable. There wasn't enough security to guard every inch of the station physically. And Kira was sure she'd lose the sensors again by night. The terrorists, on the other hand, seemed to have everything they needed. With the transporter, they could easily slip by the station's security.

"Lieutenant!"

"Yes, sir?" Mir asked.

"I want the transporter to malfunction tonight," Kira stated. She would take away their advantage.

"Sir?" Mir was confused. "It's already malfunctioning."

"No, Mir. It's not functioning at all. I don't want it taken offline. They'll do that for us. I want it taken apart. I want them all taken apart. But first, get at least one of them running. We need to empty out the morgue."

"The morgue, sir?" he repeated.

"Yes," she answered, not wanting to explain too much. "Get the transporter running, and we'll transport the contents to Cargo Bay Seven."

"Yes, sir."

* * *

Quark's was not a busy place in the morning. But it was a place to get breakfast and information. Maylon sat at his table and thought over what the boy had told him as he ate his French toast. The boy had told him of the latest rumor that the murderer had been found. There had been no murders since one of the terrorists had been detained. Maylon had asked about the bomb. He hadn't expected the boy's response. "Which bomb?"

One security officer injured on the Promenade and fourteen Teldarians dead from two bombs placed in their airlock on the docking ring. The Teldarians were simple traders. They weren't warlike like the Klingons or dishonest like the Ferengi or Gidari. They were just traders. They hadn't done anything to deserve the death of the whole crew of their ship.

Just who did these Bajorans think they were? They seemed to think they could take on the whole galaxy by themselves. Were they really so stupid that they couldn't see that the Federation was here to help them, not to help the Federation? The Federation didn't need Bajor. The Teldarians didn't need to send their people here to be killed. Bajor needed the Federation. Without the Federation, they'd be helpless. The Cardassians had seen to that.

Maybe the Federation should give the terrorists what they want. Maybe Starfleet should pull out of here and let them have their station for a little while. Perhaps when the Cardassians came back with their Galor warships to take over the "Celestial Temple", the Bajorans would realize their mistake.

They were so ungrateful. So cold. _Just like Miss Inara Taleyn_, he thought. She had no reason to be unfriendly. He'd done nothing to her except be nice.

And Julian. What was he up to? The bomb on the Promenade had been in a Cardassian's shop. Maylon shook his head remembering that Julian had said he was meeting the owner of the shop for lunch. He was meeting a Cardassian. A Cardassian spy, according to the Ferengi boy.

The boy returned to the table and sat down. "The Gidari came back last night."

"I didn't ask you about the Gidari," Maylon said. The Ferengi were greedy. The boy just wanted more money.

"I thought you might be interested in the other events on the station."

"Fine, bring me some milk and tell me about the Gidari." Maylon handed him another bar of gold-pressed latinum. The Ferengi boy grinned so widely and graciously that Maylon thought he might start to drool. He scampered away quickly and whispered with his uncle Quark who looked over at Maylon's table often.

The boy returned with the milk and the information. The Gidari had transported into Lieutenant Dax's laboratory and drugged her while they searched her lab for information and chemicals designed by the Gidari.

_Another race who seem to think they are God. _Maylon drank down his milk, tipped the boy and left the bar. He didn't want to be late. He was due in sickbay at ten. The Promenade was beginning to come to life again. The security guards were less obvious now, and Maylon decided some were probably sent to the docking ring to guard it.

* * *

"How are you feeling this morning, Lieutenant?" Bashir asked, leaning over the security officer. He scanned the man with his tricorder as he waited for an answer.

"Much better," he answered, even managing a smile. "Thank you, Doctor. But I got light-headed when I tried to sit up."

"So don't try to sit up," Bashir advised. "Just relax. You've lost some blood. Too much activity will make you light-headed. Get some rest. It will get better."

"What exactly happened anyway?"

"Another bomb happened," Bashir said. He laid the tricorder aside. The patient needed rest and to replenish his supply of blood, which would happen naturally with time. "Destroyed the clothier's shop."

"Where we found the Bajoran kid?" he asked, but he didn't seem to require an answer. "Was anyone else hurt?"

"No," Bashir assured him. "You were the only one."

"That's good," the lieutenant commented.

"Now, go back to sleep." Bashir left him and went to see Dax. She was awake and smiled at him.

"You look tired, Julian," she said. She moved her legs over, and Bashir sat down on the edge of the biobed.

"I am tired." He sighed and rubbed his eyes. It was true. He'd had a little sleep early on, a few hours at the most. But he'd been awake since the bomb in the docking ring, and he was up the whole day before that. "How about you?"

"Oh, I feel fine now," Dax declared brightly. She was wide awake. She'd had her sleep earlier in the night until the Gidari came and after she was brought to the Infirmary. "Actually, you can release me any time you want."

"You never want to stay," Julian complained in fun. "Don't you like my Infirmary?"

"It's not the Infirmary," Dax teased. "I just don't like doctors."

"Oh, that hurts." Bashir became serious again. "Squeeze my hand."

Dax obeyed and took his hand.

"You've got quite a grip," Bashir said, when she squeezed. He had checked her before and knew that there wasn't any trace of the drug left in her system. He was satisfied that she had her strength back and no side effects from the drug. "Normally, I'd say stay and rest anyway, but we could probably use your help. You can go whenever you want. But don't feel you have to. We probably won't get to sleep tonight, so you might want to sleep now so you're well rested."

"I could say the same to you," Dax said. She sat up and rubbed his shoulders for him. "You've been up the whole night."

Bashir closed his eyes and felt the muscles in his neck begin to relax. "Grant was here last night."

"And?" Dax asked.

"He was on the docking ring when the bomb blew. He said he had gone for a walk," he clarified. "What was he doing going for a walk on the docking ring so late at night?"

"That is strange, I suppose." Dax stopped massaging his neck. "Maybe he didn't realize that the lights would go out."

"You do realize that he's a suspect, don't you?"

"Julian," Dax said and waited for Bashir to turn his head, "I know you said something bad happened between the two of you, but do you really think he would kill someone? Are you sure you're looking at this subjectively?"

"I know what you think," Bashir began, ready to defend himself. "But I don't let my personal feelings get in the way of my duties. I don't think he'd normally kill anyone. But I don't think he's acting normally. You saw how he was at dinner the other day. If he wasn't a doctor himself, I'd think he was a drug addict."

"Maybe you should ask Maylon," she suggested. "He treated him that night."

"Maylon's a suspect too. They all are. It's almost ridiculous how many left-handed medical personnel are running around on this station right now. Both of the _Ranger_'s doctors and Doctor Grant, not to mention one of my nurses. What are the odds of that happening?"

"O'Brien to Bashir."

Bashir tapped his comm badge and answered, "Bashir here."

"We've got Cargo Bay Seven cooled down and ready to go. We're prepared to transport."

"That's good news, Chief. Do you need me to do anything?"

"No, we can get them from here, Doctor."

"Right. Whenever you're ready, Chief. Bashir out."

"Transport what, Julian?" Dax asked.

"Them," Bashir answered, pointing to the morgue. They watched the wall. They could see the transporter effect fall over the top left-hand drawer. It wavered and sparkled for a moment and then returned to normal. The effect fell on the second drawer. Even as it did, little lights began to appear on the black consoles above the biobeds. One by one they appeared, filling the consoles with color.

"That was rather quick," Bashir commented. "But it means I have more work to do. You know, with the computer up, they might as well have left them here."

"We'll just lose the computer again tonight, and they'd have to be moved anyway," Dax said, echoing Bashir's fatigued tone. She pulled her legs up so that she could sit beside Bashir on the side of the bed. "We've both got work to do."

"Be careful," Bashir warned. "The Gidari might want to return. Don't take any chances."

Dax nodded and smiled her serene smile. She patted him once on the back. "I won't. Let's get to work, Julian."

Julian nodded and stood again. He'd have to inspect the situation in Cargo Bay Seven to make sure it was sealed well and cold enough. And he could now repair Reyna's vocal cords and give Lieutenant James the blood he needed for a full recovery. Dax left and Bashir called Nurse Jabara from the other room.

"Let's set Mr. James up with two pints of A positive if the computer is up to cooperating." As he spoke, he ran a diagnostic on the Infirmary's computers.

"Yes, Doctor." Jabara went to replicate the blood and set up the equipment, while Bashir took the time to update the medical log. There was a lot to add because the log had not been accessible since before the night's first bomb. He waited for the diagnostic to finish and then set the log to record. Dax had been admitted and released without any real treatment. Nurse Reyna's injuries were healed and all that remained now was to restore her voice. Fourteen Teldarians had been admitted, so to speak. They were dead on arrival. And one security officer had been treated in the dark and would probably be released by lunchtime.

Dr. Grant was a problem. Bashir had been busy with Lieutenant James and had not even had a chance to examine Grant. He had taken care of himself. Bashir was glad not to have had to deal with him, especially at that time. But he didn't like patients leaving his Infirmary before he knew for himself that they were well.

The log taken care of, Bashir went to see his patient. "Well, Lieutenant. It looks as if you'll be out of here by lunchtime."

"Sounds great," James replied. "Do I get time off for this?"

"Only for the rest of the day," Bashir answered. "I could authorize that, I believe, but we'll need you tonight I would think."

Bashir ran a scan of the blood to assure himself that it was safe and uncontaminated. Satisfied, he began the infusion and monitored the blood as it slowly entered the man's system. The computer monitored it also, checking for air bubbles that could be caught in the line. It took several minutes, but finished smoothly.

Bashir turned to Jabara. "I've got to go inspect the cargo bay. Pull up the specs on Reyna's voice, and we'll take care of that when I get back."

Jabara nodded, and Bashir left the Infirmary again. He was amazed at the stubbornness of DS-Nine's population. Four bombs and three murders and they still wouldn't stay off the Promenade. It was late morning now, and morale on the Promenade seemed high. The corridors were full of people shopping. Bashir waited for the turbolift and stepped inside.

He stepped out again when he reached the docking ring. The docking ring was darker and more quiet. There were generally less people here, except when a new ship was arriving. Cargo Bay Seven was a short walk from the turbolift.

The door did not immediately open when he approached. Bashir placed his hand on the panel beside the door. The computer recognized him. "Dr. Julian Bashir, Chief Medical Officer. Access permitted." The door slid open.

"Computer, who has access to this bay?"

"Only senior staff and medical personnel have access to Cargo Bay Seven."

Bashir thought for a moment. It might be a good idea to restrict access further. Even some of his own medical staff had to be considered suspects in the murders. "Restrict that access to only senior staff unless otherwise authorized by me."

"Done."

"Thank you." Bashir could feel the cold from the open doorway. He stepped inside and opened his tricorder. Seventeen below zero degrees. Fine. The bodies had been placed in plastic bags in preparation for their transfer. They were now lined up on the floor in the same order as they had been in the drawers. The bodies were freezing nicely. There weren't any leaks or contamination. Everything seemed fine.

Bashir turned to leave again, but the door wouldn't open. He stepped back and stepped forward, hoping that the door just had a glitch. But still the door didn't open. "Computer," Bashir said, "open the interior door to Cargo Bay Seven."

"Recognize . . . human." The computer's monotone voice responded.

"Excuse me?" Bashir looked up out of habit. And then he could see the small gray box above the door with its small flashing red light.


	10. Chapter Ten

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Ten**

Chief O'Brien smiled when the turbolift doors opened for him without the slightest hesitation. At least these were working perfectly. "Docking ring," he said. And, happily, the turbolift began to move. He knew he had a lot of ground to cover, so he also knew it would take a few minutes to reach the docking ring. The important things were up and running, and he could take things a little easier now, but only a little.

The central computer was still giving him a few problems, like not letting him in the door to run a diagnostic, but he would deal with that. He was sure that if he could get in there, he could find out how to stop the terrorists controlling the computer. The most important functions of the computer were now possible, so it was not urgent. For now, he had needed to stretch his legs and decided to check over the cargo bay they had converted into a morgue.

It would be nice to get a chance to sleep today, but O'Brien couldn't see that happening. There was too much to do. There were still kinks in the computers to be worked out. He had to prep the runabouts and find a way into the central computer. And there was still damage to repair at Docking Port Four. It had only been sealed off temporarily. He imagined it would be some time before he got to sleep.

The turbolift stopped and the doors opened smoothly. O'Brien checked his tricorder as he walked down the corridor. When he reached the door, he used the tricorder to check the seals on the door. If the seals were faulty, heat would escape into the bay and much needed energy would be wasted. The seals checked out. O'Brien placed his hand on the black panel beside the door. He waited for the computer to identify him.

* * *

Bashir looked at the small device above the door. _A bomb. It must be a bomb. _"Computer, open the door," he ordered hopefully.

"Unable to comply," the dispassionate computer replied.

"Override!" Bashir clasped his hands together. _How long? _he wondered. Minutes? Seconds? He tried his communicator. It chirped weakly. But the comm line didn't open.

"Unable to comply."

He tried to open the door manually. He pulled down on the lever, but the door refused to open. He looked quickly around the room for an access crawlway, but there was only a ventilation duct high on the wall. The cargo bay had been emptied in preparation for the transfer of the corpses. There was no way to get high enough to open the duct.

_The transporter. _There was a cargo transporter in one corner of the bay. Bashir ran quickly over to it, but the console refused to respond to his commands. He tried to override, but, like the door, the transporter was inaccessible.

_How long? Don't panic. Think. _But what he thought of was fire. He thought of a fire long ago, remembered the pain of the burns on his skin, remembered the taste of the smoke, choking on it. _Think_, he ordered himself.

The corpses. They could shelter him. But did he have time to get beneath them? He looked back around to the bomb above the door. What had Grant said? He tried to remember the conversation he'd barely overheard when Grant was in the Infirmary. The light was blinking. When it stopped blinking, it exploded. And just as he thought it, the light stopped blinking and shined a solid red.

* * *

"Miles O'Brien, Chief of Operations," the computer droned. "Access permitted." The door began to slide open.

Even before the door could open all the way, Dr. Bashir came rushing out, barreling right into O'Brien. He grabbed his arm and pulled him along with him. "RUN!" he screamed.

O'Brien didn't argue. They hadn't taken three steps when the door blew. He felt as if a wall hit him from behind, knocking him and the doctor off their feet. Bashir was quick to stand again. O'Brien felt the pull on his arm as he tried to stand. A billowing wave of fire poured out the door. But they were running again. Thirty yards ahead a bulkhead was beginning to close, to isolate and smother the fire. Behind was the fire, trying to race them to the door.

Bashir was behind him, too. O'Brien felt his hand on his back, pushing him forward toward the closing door. _We're not going to make it_, he thought. The door was already half-closed. It was all happening in slow motion. O'Brien felt one last shove on his back, and he was through the door. He fell to the ground in a tumble. Bashir dived through behind him just as the door clapped shut.

Bashir sat up and leaned against the door, breathing hard and fast. "Are you alright?" he asked.

O'Brien was winded as well from their sprint. He nodded. "You?"

Bashir nodded back. Then he started to laugh. "I'll bet you didn't think we'd make it," he teased between breaths.

O'Brien ignored that. It took a moment before he could get enough air to speak. "What did you do, Julian?" He leaned back beside the doctor.

"Do?" Bashir asked, pretending to be shocked. "I didn't do anything. What were you doing?"

"I just came to check the cargo bay," O'Brien answered. "Make sure the seals were tight, and so on." He took a deep breath, trying to slow down his lungs.

"Same thing," Bashir replied, "checking on the bodies and the temperature, that sort of thing." He took a few breaths and then continued. "Then I saw the bomb. I was trapped. The door wouldn't open for me. If you hadn't come when you did. . . ."

"I didn't even know there was a bomb," O'Brien held. "If they locked out the door, why'd it open for me?"

"You were on the outside. They must have forgotten about that. I, personally, am quite glad that they did." Bashir stood up and brushed the dust off his clothes as best as he could.

"What did it look like?" O'Brien asked as he stood.

"Same as the one we found with the Bajoran kid." Bashir's breathing had slowed. "And it was just like Grant said. Flashing red light. It stopped flashing just when the door opened. I thought I was dead for sure."

O'Brien hated being reminded of his age by Bashir's youth. He, himself, was still having trouble breathing normally. "It can't be the same person," he said, thinking aloud.

"What do you mean?"

"Whoever has been controlling our computer hasn't forgotten anything," he explained. "Every scenario was covered when Targo Hern was gassed in the detention cell. Letting me open the door was a stupid mistake. It's not the same person."

"Well, at least this time, no one was hurt," Bashir concluded.

O'Brien began to laugh now. "So much for preserving your bodies."

* * *

A warning message flashed across the viewscreen. Another bomb. Kira stabbed at the console. Seventeen dead registered on the sensors. She stabbed another control, opening the communications line to Commander Sisko. "Kira to Sisko."

"Yes, Major."

"There's been another bomb."

There was a moment of silence before Sisko spoke again. When he did, his voice was slow and controlled. He was angry. "Casualties?"

"Kira," Dax interrupted. "It's Cargo Bay Seven."

"Seven?" Kira asked. "Just a moment, Commander." He wouldn't be happy about that.

Dax nodded.

Kira sighed. "How many bodies were transferred from the Infirmary?"

Dax checked the transporter record. She smiled. "Seventeen."

"Hopefully none, Commander."

"O'Brien to Ops." Another call came in.

"Dax here, Chief."

"There was a bomb in Cargo Bay Seven." O'Brien sounded as if he'd been running.

"We know," Dax answered. "Are you alright, Chief?"

"Yeah, the doctor and I saved each other. Look," he said, "I've got another idea about all this. I'll tell you when I get up there."

Sisko broke in. "You can all meet me in my office. The doctor, too."

* * *

Inara Taleyn handed the young man back his change. He had just bought a beautiful silver bracelet. He had asked her to help him choose the best one. He was going to ask his girlfriend to marry him. His nervousness and anxiety and happiness lifted Inara's spirits. Until she saw Theel.

He stood in the doorway, but he didn't enter. He stepped aside for the young man. Inara looked to see if Mr. Wayd was watching. He was busy with another customer. Inara gave Theel an angry look. He should never disturb her while she was at work. Theel made a sign with his hands, pretending to eat from an imaginary plate. Then he outlined with his fingers two large ears. Lunch at Quark's. Inara nodded and then shooed him away. She glanced back to see if Wayd had seen the exchange. When she turned back, Theel was gone.

The customer Wayd was working with left, and Inara approached her boss. "I know it's a little early, but I didn't have breakfast and I'm starving. May I leave for lunch?"

"Well, that was a good sale you made, wasn't it?" the shop owner commented. "And business is a bit slower today. Why not?"

"Thank you," Inara said, smiling. "You're probably the nicest boss I've ever had."

"How many have you had since the Occupation?" Wayd inquired.

"Only you," Inara admitted. "I'll be back in a half an hour."

Theel was waiting on the second floor. He stood at the railing until he saw her, and until she saw him, and then left to sit at his table. Inara climbed the stairs, wondering why he was smiling so smugly.

Quark's usually did good business for lunch, so the place was crowded. That suited Inara. She could then pretend she didn't know Theel and just needed a place to sit. "Is this seat taken?" she asked him when she reached his table. A few heads turned to see who had spoken, but people in Quark's didn't normally bother with other people's business. Seeing that nothing exciting was happening, the heads turned away. It was as if Inara and Theel were alone.

"Of course," Theel said politely and Inara sat down.

"Couldn't you wait until evening?" Inara scolded. "Coming to the shop was dangerous." She fell silent when the waiter came to take their orders.

Theel waited for the Ferengi to leave. "I know but I just had to tell you." Theel was excited. He lowered his voice. "Another event happened on the docking ring."

"What?!" Inara had neither received nor given orders for another event, another bomb, and not in broad daylight. The computer might as well have been fully operational. She lowered her voice to match Theel's. "Who set it?" She knew the answer.

"I did," Theel said. He didn't yet sense her anger. "It was just too easy. I was alone in the cargo bay, and, well . . . it just seemed like the Prophets were leading me."

"You're a fool," Inara stated. "Tell me everything you did." The waiter returned with a tray and set the food in front of them on the table. All talking stopped until he was out of earshot.

Theel leaned over the table. "I'm a fool?" He was insulted. "Why?"

"Tell me how you did it, and I'll tell you why you're a fool."

Theel had stopped smiling. But he seemed not to know if Inara was being genuinely insulting or sincerely critical. "You mean with the computer?" he asked uncertainly.

"Oh, so you did at least use the computer?" Inara said. "That's encouraging."

"The computer set the bomb. That was the beauty of it," Theel explained in a whisper. "The program kicked in when the door was opened. It sealed the door. Whoever was in couldn't get out. Then when he called for the computer to override the lock on the door, it armed the bomb instead. It also locked up the transporter and blocked out communications from the bay."

"What if it was a Bajoran inside?"

Theel shook his head confidently. "The program checked for Bajorans. It would have aborted."

"Is that everything?" Inara asked.

Theel still didn't get it. "Yes," he answered.

"And if someone tried to open the door from the outside?" Inara proposed.

"No one would have known," Theel took to the defensive. "There was no communication."

Inara held her position. "You didn't answer my question."

"I don't know."

"Then it would open," Inara concluded.

"But there was only two minutes from when the bomb was armed," Theel argued. "There wouldn't be time anyway."

"It could happen. You must think of every possibility." Inara felt as if she was talking to a child. Why had the Elders sent him to her? He was convenient, already a technician with clearance to many areas she did not. But he was careless. He would get caught. "What about security sensors."

"I turned them off."

"Where?" she demanded. "From the computer or from the bay."

Theel didn't answer.

"You're a fool. These people are godless, Theel," Inara said, "not stupid. Couldn't you see how fast O'Brien got the computers up this morning? They'd already caught Hern. Or don't you remember?"

"They didn't know he was involved with the bombs," Theel held. "They questioned him about the murders."

"And you believed them? They knew, Theel." He was stupid, almost useless. He would get them both killed. He was all she had left. She spelled it out for him. "Perhaps if they accused him of the murders, he would deny them so much that he would admit to the lesser crime of placing a bomb in an empty room."

Theel looked ill. He was pale. "What should I do?"

"You go back to work," Inara ordered, "and act like a part of the crew. And next time you wait for me." She took a bite of her food. "They think Targo was the murderer." She watched for Theel's reaction.

Theel didn't say anything. He began to eat his lunch gloomily.

* * *

"What happened?" Sisko inquired. He was looking at his two dust-covered officers.

Bashir spoke first. "I was just checking on the bodies that had been transferred to Cargo Bay Seven. When I turned to leave, the door wouldn't open. I thought it was just another glitch. But communication was cut off, and when I asked the computer to override the lock on the door, I noticed the bomb. It was very small," he held up his hand, indicating a small object about 2 inches long, "and above the door near the ceiling."

"And you just happened to see it?" Kira asked skeptically.

Bashir decided she was tired or she might not have said that. But then he was tired, too, and not in the mood to overlook it. He was annoyed. He turned to Kira. "The computer had answered, 'Recognize human,' to my request to open the door. I thought that was a rather odd answer." He continued with his explanation. "There was a red blinking light like Grant said he saw on the docking ring. It stopped blinking and the door opened."

"I had come to check the cargo bay as well," O'Brien said, taking up the story. "The door opened just as it should, and the doctor ran out, taking me with him. It blew just after that. We barely made it."

Sisko nodded. "Are we any closer to catching them?"

Everyone was silent. Kira looked down at the floor for a moment. But only for a moment. She looked up again and met Sisko's eyes.

"A little," O'Brien finally answered. "I've been thinking. . . ."

Sisko waited, his eyes riveted on his Chief of Operations. Everyone was watching O'Brien now.

"The door opened for me, but it wouldn't open for him." He pointed to Bashir.

"So?" Kira commented. "They wanted to keep him inside when it exploded. They would lock the door from the inside."

Only Bashir knew what O'Brien was getting at. O'Brien tried to clarify. "But they didn't lock it from the outside. If they really wanted to keep him in there, they would've made sure that the door didn't open no matter what. They made a mistake. It's not the same person that's been tampering with our computer. I know it."

"How does that help us find them, Chief?" Sisko asked. "We still don't know who the other person was."

"The other person covered all his tracks. He used the transporter to get in and out. He didn't lock one door to a certain area. He took every door on the station offline. He took down the security sensors before he ever went in. Whoever did this wasn't that smart. We still have security sensors in the bay. We can find out who's been in there."

"We don't have the sensors in the cargo bay, Chief," Dax corrected. "They're not working."

"Since when?" the Chief asked. He looked confident, like he already knew the answer.

"Since about 0945 this morning."

"Right. That's just before the bodies were transported to the bay and after the sensor array was brought back online. It wasn't a computer failure. I checked. The sensors were disconnected manually from inside the bay. They had to be. And we still have the sensors for the corridor. I'll bet whoever set that bomb was stupid enough to walk through that door."

* * *

"Can I help you, sir?" A young woman in a gold-trimmed uniform stood in front of him. Grant looked back at her in confusion. What was she doing in his quarters? He looked around. He was standing in a doorway. Beyond the young officer he could see large black computer consoles and screens, filled with colorful controls and diagrams. Beyond those was the warp drive, slowly pulsing with energy.

"Sir?" the woman repeated. "Only authorized personnel are allowed into Engineering. I'm afraid I'll have to ask you to leave, sir."

"I, uh, I'm sorry," Grant stammered. "I seem to have . . . to have taken a wrong turn. I was, uh, looking for Commander Pynar."

The young woman, an ensign, smiled. "He's not here. You could ask the computer to locate him for you."

"Uh, yes." Grant backed toward the door. He could hear it open behind him. "I'll do that. Thank you." He stepped through the door and waited for it to close.

He leaned against the wall beside the door. He was in Engineering. How did he get to Engineering? He was asleep. He had to be asleep. He'd taken the . . . the hypospray. He should have been in his bed in his quarters. Two officers entered the corridor and glanced at him questioningly. Grant stood up quickly and walked passed them. He went straight to the turbolift.

* * *

Dr. Bashir waited for Reyna's eyes to flutter open. They did and she smiled when she saw him. "Well," Bashir said, "let's hear it."

"Good morning," Reyna said cautiously. Her voice was a little low and gravelly.

"Say it a few more times," Bashir told her. "Your voice isn't awake yet."

"Good morning. Good morning. Good morning."

"Again."

"Good morning. Good morning. Good morning." With each word her voice raised slightly in pitch and the gravelly sound disappeared.

"How does it feel?" Bashir asked.

"Fine," the nurse answered.

"Good," Bashir said. He turned away to touch a control on the computer. He pulled up a display of her voice patterns. He did not face her when he spoke. "What's your name?"

"Nurse Reyna Karn," Reyna answered evenly.

Bashir was watching the readout on the computer screen to see if the new pattern matched the old one. "How old are you, Nurse Reyna Karn?"

"I'm twenty-six years old."

"Are you married, Nurse Reyna Karn?"

Reyna crossed her arms over her chest and raised her eyebrows. "No, I'm not married, Doctor Bashir."

Bashir turned around. He was grinning. "I just had to ask," he said mischievously. "The two voice patterns match. Congratulations, Nurse Reyna, you have your voice back."

"Thank you, Doctor."

"No thanks necessary," Bashir said, helping her to sit up. "It's my job. Your free to go."

"Thank you," Reyna repeated as she walked out the door.

Dr. Bashir tapped his comm badge. "Bashir to O'Brien."

"O'Brien here."

"Was there anything left in the cargo bay, Chief?"

"Actually, yes. They were on the far side of the bay, away from the door. One or two of the Teldarians were pretty much destroyed, but the others are in better shape. The bags melted, though. We've rebagged them and moved what we've got to Cargo Bay Six. I've checked the place myself to make sure there are no surprises this time. All the seals are secure. The temperature is seventeen below zero degrees. Thought I'd save you a trip."

"Thanks, Chief. Bashir out." Bashir was surprised. But he was almost hoping all the bodies had been destroyed in the blast. As it stood, they had to wait for transport or burial by their own people. That couldn't happen until this whole mess with the Bajorans was solved. Hopefully, that would be soon. Everyone who had prepared Cargo Bay Seven to be the temporary morgue was being questioned one by one in the security office. One of them had set the bomb.

"I'm going to lunch," Bashir told Jabara. "I'll be back in an hour."

"Yes, Doctor," Jabara replied.

From the amount of people on the Promenade, one would not have known that there were any problems on the station. Quark's was brightly lit and noisy already. There was a line outside the Replimat. Bashir looked for Garak in line but didn't see him. He walked passed the line and peeked in, scanning the tables for his friend. People complained behind him, telling him to wait in line like everyone else.

Garak saw him and waved. Bashir pushed passed the crowds and made his way to Garak's table. Garak had saved him a seat. "Good afternoon, Doctor," Garak said cheerily. He even smiled.

"Good afternoon," Bashir returned. He tried to smile. "I'm sorry about your shop, Garak."

"I am as well." Garak's smile faded and he sighed.

"Considering the line," Garak said, gesturing toward the crowd, "I thought I'd save you the trouble. I hope you don't mind."

Bashir looked down at the plate in front of him on the table. It was human fare: pork chops with rice and corn and a small salad on the side. There was a cup of tea there as well, still steaming and hot. "I don't mind at all," he answered honestly. "It looks wonderful. I haven't had a lot of time to eat this well lately."

Garak only nodded, engaged as he was in taking a bite of his own meal.

"What will you do?" Bashir asked, turning their conversation back to the shop.

The Cardassian took a drink to wash down his food and then answered, "I learned after the last time that it would be to my advantage to take out insurance."

"The Bajorans gave you insurance?" Bashir couldn't believe they would insure a Cardassian.

"They did not see it to their advantage," Garak stated sadly. "Pity. The Ferengi however see any possibility of profit to their advantage."

The Ferengi. Surely Garak was smarter than that. "How much profit did they get?"

But Garak was confident. "Not as much as they thought they were going to get. Besides, now they have to pay."

"Speaking of terrorists," Bashir said, changing the subject, "you haven't seen or heard anything that might help us in our investigation, have you?"

"Now, Doctor, must I always remind you?"

Bashir finished for him. "You're just a plain and simple tailor. But you're also a very _observant _tailor," he added, "and I'd hoped perhaps you'd _observed _something that might be of assistance in our investigation to find the people responsible for destroying your shop."

Garak leaned back in his chair. "I did happen to run into the young Bajoran boy a day before he was found dead in my shop. He was with a woman. I believe she is employed at the jeweler's near Quark's."

Bashir was disappointed. They already knew about her. "Yes, she lived with him."

"I noticed a different young man come to visit her at work this morning," Garak continued.

That was new. But was it useful? "Oh?" Bashir hoped to get a little more information.

"Yes, it was rather odd," related Garak. "He stood in the doorway and made signs with his hands. Then he walked into Quark's. She joined him a few minutes later. He was wearing a Bajoran uniform."

"What color?"

"A drab shade of gray. Not very flattering, I'm afraid. And what about yourself? How are you this fine day?" Garak asked.

"Me?"

"Yes, you've seemed a bit down-hearted, shall we say?" Garak explained. "Perhaps that other doctor has something to do with it."

_Not him, too_, Bashir thought. Garak was too observant. He probably knew everything already. "Which other doctor?"

"The famous one. There seems to be more there than meets the eye, as you humans like to say."

* * *

Dax stared at the viewscreen and scrolled down another page. The station's computer was cooperating well enough, but the records from the planet were splotchy at best. From the corner of her eye, she could see a figure step down from the turbolift. She looked up. "Good afternoon, Captain," she said.

Captain Gerin seemed a bit distracted, but he returned her greeting. "I believe Commander Sisko is expecting me," he said. But she noted that his eyes never made contact with hers. And he held the railing when he climbed the few steps to Sisko's office.

"Yes," Dax replied, "he is." She watched for the door to open. "Are you feeling alright, Captain?"

"I'm fine. Thank you, Lieutenant." The doors opened, and Gerin entered the office.

In a moment, Sisko's voice sounded from the comm system. "Can you join us, Old Man?"

Dax stood from her seat and bounded energetically up the steps to the office. Gerin was sitting, leaning over in a chair. Sisko was behind his desk. He had a computer display in front of him. "Lieutenant Dax has been checking the records of some of our Operations staff. We believe one of them has been working with the terrorists."

"And gave us the virus?" Gerin asked. His voice sounded strained. He clenched his jaw tight.

Dax watched him in concern. "No, sir. Chief O'Brien thinks that it's not the same person. There were mistakes and incongruities this time. But it does appear that they are working together."

"All Operations staff involved in this last incident are being questioned," Sisko added. He had apparently noticed Gerin's attitude, for he shared a worried glance with Dax. "Any luck with the records, Old Man?"

"Benjamin, they're _all _former resistance fighters. But their service records since the end of the Occupation check out."

Gerin's eyebrows furrowed. "If they're all resistance fighters, what are you looking for in the records?" His right hand gripped the arm of the chair.

"Two of the terrorists have turned up dead," Sisko answered. "We know there are at least two more."

"The ones we found," added Dax, "had been using false names. I'm tracing the records of the Operations staff back as far as possible to see if I can find evidence of a name change. Also, the bomb we recovered is small and requires being placed by hand in a target location. We're trying to establish who has experience in using such explosives against the Cardassians."

Gerin waited for more. "And?" He was trying not to grimace.

"The Cardassians did not leave Bajoran infrastructure in good condition. It takes time to get to those records, if they still exist. Are you sure you're alright, Captain?"

Gerin stood up abruptly. "I think," he said, breathing heavily, "I need to get back to my ship." Then he simply collapsed to the floor. Dax knelt beside him.

Sisko tapped his communications badge. "Doctor Bashir to the Infirmary. Emergency. Ops three to transport."

"Aye, sir."

In seconds the transporter effect tingled through Dax's body. When it faded, she was kneeling in the Infirmary over the crumpled form of Captain Gerin. He had no pulse. A nurse approached them, and Bashir ran through the door at the same moment.

"What happened?" he asked. He was already scanning the captain with his tricorder.

Dax answered. "He didn't appear to be feeling well. He just collapsed in Benjamin's office."

"Help me get him to a biobed," Bashir ordered. He worked quickly and took the captain's shoulders up in his arms. The nurse grabbed his feet, and they placed him on the biobed. The monitors lit up around him. "One cc of cordrazine, and let's try the neural stimulator," Bashir suggested. His voice was quiet.

Dax could guess the result before the device was even activated. The nurse placed the neural stimulator above the captain's head so that its two arms reached past his temples. When it was activated, the electricity applied to his nervous system caused the captain to twitch, but the readouts on the monitor quickly returned to their former status showing a distinct lack of neural activity. The captain was dead.

Bashir tried a few more times, but it was no use. "He's gone," he said, finally. He took samples of the captain's blood and tissue and let the nurse cover the body. He crossed the room to access the main medical computer. He talked as he pressed controls and started his analysis. "Targo wasn't our man," he said. "He was poisoned."

"With what?" Sisko asked.

Bashir did not turn around to answer. "There seems to be a compound of three different chemicals," he said, still watching the computer screen and displays. He stopped for a moment and looked up at Dax. "One of them is Gidari."

That didn't make sense. "Why would they poison Gerin? He's had nothing to do with them," Dax said.

Bashir shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. Maybe it isn't them. Who else could have gotten access to those chemicals? We'll need to find out how and when he was poisoned, who he's been in contact with."

"Dax," Sisko said. "You're with Bashir. I'll contact the _Ranger_'s First Officer. I'll need an official report on his death."

"Of course," Bashir replied. Dax joined him at the computer where he was analyzing the fatal compound.

Bashir wasn't paying attention. "Stenacine," he said, as if it was the answer to everything.

Dax nodded, stenacine was the major contributor to the compound. "But," she pointed out, "stenacine would have been instantaneous. He walked here from the _Ranger _and talked with us for at least five minutes."

Bashir shook his head. "A ratio of ten to one stenacine to tricordrazine could delay the anesthetic effects of the stenacine by as much as six hours," he explained. "Any stimulant will do that. We have delactovine here, enough to hold the stenacine for up to half a day. And we have no way of knowing what reaction the Gidari chemical would produce when combined with these others."

Dax added, "Until now."

* * *

"Access denied." The computer droned.

"Now, I wonder why that is?" O'Brien asked. He was trying to get into the central computer. He was sure that the terrorists had tapped directly into the mainframe. He had to stop them from the inside.

"Unable to answer."

"I wasn't talking to you," the chief scowled. "Who is authorized to enter?"

"Chief of Operations Miles O'Brien," the computer's female voice answered, "Commander Benjamin Sisko, First Officer Kira Nerys, Chief Science Officer Jadzia Dax."

"And who am I?"

"Chief of Operations Miles O'Brien."

"Good." O'Brien felt like he was talking to a stubborn child, like when his daughter, Molly, refused to go to bed. "Then open the door."

"Access denied."

"Override!" he shouted, angrily.

"Unable to comply."

O'Brien touched his comm badge. "Ops, you ready to transport?"

"Yes, Chief," Mir answered. "Standing by."

They had been prepared for this. Lieutenant Mir was waiting by the transporter, which was already programmed to beam him into the room. "Transport."

O'Brien felt the effect of the transporter and watched as the door disappeared from his sight. Transporting was always an interesting phenomenon to him. One's body was taken apart molecule by molecule and put back together somewhere else. But when the effect faded and O'Brien was whole again, he found he was still standing in the same place.

"Ops," he said over the comm line, "I'm still here." His voice showed his disappointment.

"I'm sorry, sir," Mir said. "The transporter rerouted you back there. Shall we try it again?"

"Yes," O'Brien decided, "and monitor it carefully. I want to know what that transporter is doing."

"Yes, sir."

O'Brien waited and then felt the effect again. His sight faded and then returned. He was still staring at the door. "Report, Lieutenant."

"We almost lost you, sir. I don't think we should try it again."

Lost? O'Brien checked his chronometer. He was four minutes ahead of where he should have been. "What happened?"

"The transporter refused to send the stream to the emitter array. You were stuck in the pattern buffer for nearly four minutes. But we managed to override. We still can't get you into the computer."

"Obviously." O'Brien replied. "They don't want us in there, Lieutenant."

"No, sir."

"But I'm not going to let that stop me. Let's prep the _Rio Grande_. We'll try it from the outside. There's more than one way to skin a cat."

"Aye, sir."

* * *

The technician stepped into the security office. He glanced nervously toward the detention cells. "Have a seat, Mr. Stirad," Major Kira said, offering the crewman a chair in the front room of the security office.

The technician appeared relieved. "Thank you, Major." Theel replied. His hands shook slightly. He clasped them together and laid them in his lap.

Kira leaned back against Odo's desk. Odo sat behind her, silently watching the technician. She smiled in an effort to appear polite and unthreatening. She would start with the easy questions. "Mr. Stirad, you were in the team of technicians that were ordered to prepare the cargo bay for the transfer of bodies from the Infirmary, correct?"

"Correct." Theel nodded. But he did not offer any other information.

_Fine_, Kira thought. "Do you know why you're being questioned?"

"The bomb in the bay," he answered.

"And how do you know about the bomb in the bay?"

"Everyone knows about the bomb."

"Okay, which bay was that?" Kira asked, pulling her eyebrows down as if she didn't remember.

"Seven." Theel was being very terse. But his hands had stopped shaking, and he appeared more calm.

"Right, seven." Kira smiled again. "And what did you do in the bay?"

"I sealed all exits and vents to insure that the climate was isolated from the rest of the station and the corridors."

Kira crossed her ankles in front of her. Odo made notes on a padd. She was glad he was there. He noticed little things in people's appearances that others often missed. "And what exits were those?"

"There were only two," Theel answered. "The interior door and the exterior. There were ventilation ducts high on the left-hand wall and an access tunnel on the right. Both were sealed off."

"The interior door was sealed off, too?" Kira tested him.

"Not exactly." He began to clarify. "I checked the door to make sure the seal was tight when the door was closed."

"Who could open the door from the inside?"

"Anyone, from the inside."

"And from the corridor?"

Theel thought for just a moment before answering. "Only senior staff and medical personnel."

Kira picked up a padd. There wasn't anything on it, but Stirad didn't know that. It was time for the more specific questions. "When you were checking the seals on the door, did you notice any malfunction in the locking mechanism?"

"No, sir."

"Did you ever address the computer?"

"Only once, to set the authorization for senior staff and medical personnel."

"Did the computer ever verbally recognize you as Bajoran?"

Theel looked confused. But he began to sweat. "No."

"Did you find there was any anomaly in the computer in reference to opening that door?" Kira asked.

"No, sir."

Kira pretended to check her padd. "Who opened the door when the team prepared to leave?"

"Ensign Ching."

"And the door opened for him? He didn't have to override the lock?"

"No, the door opened." Theel rubbed his thumbs together.

"When Ching opened the door, was this before or after the bodies were transported to the bay?"

"Before."

"And the team left."

"Yes." Theel nodded his head quickly. Then he shook it. "I mean, no. Everyone but me. I did not leave until after."

"After," Kira repeated. "Why did you stay?"

"To monitor the transport of the bodies."

She pretended to check the padd again. "Were the bodies transported at one time, in groups, or one by one?"

"One by one?"

He'd had to guess. _He's either incompetent or our terrorist_, Kira thought. She didn't give the technician time to think. "How many bodies were there?"

"I . . . um . . . fifteen or sixteen."

"You were monitoring the transport. You don't know how many there were? Were you negligent in your duty? How did you know that all the bodies were transported?"

"I wasn't always watching," Theel admitted. "I didn't want to see them. The doctor would have said something if we missed any."

_True_, Kira thought. But it still didn't prove him innocent. "What were you doing when you weren't watching the transport?"

Theel stopped breathing. He opened and closed his mouth a few times before he answered, blowing out his air as he did. "I was just standing there. I just didn't look."

That was better. Kira had seen his reaction. "And when the transport was complete, what did you do?"

The technician was nervous again. "I ran another check on the seals and then left the bay."

Kira's smile had long ago faded. She was serious. Her questions came more quickly. "Did anyone, to your knowledge, tamper with the security sensors in Cargo Bay Seven?"

"No."

"Did anyone tamper with the computer authorization to open the door from the inside?" Kira asked.

"No," Theel answered.

"Do you know what happened in the moments leading up to the explosion of the bomb?"

"No, I just know there was a bomb."

"Well, let me fill you in." Of course, she didn't plan to tell him the truth exactly. She wanted to see if he caught the mistakes, if he'd be stupid enough to correct her. "Chief O'Brien went to check the bay after the transport. When he turned to leave, the door would _not _open. Why is that?"

"I don't know. It opened fine before."

"Yes, so you said," Kira commented. She continued, "When Chief O'Brien ordered the computer to override the lock, the computer answered, 'Recognize human.' What would be the purpose in that?"

"I don't know."

"Use your imagination, Lieutenant. You're a trained technician." She reiterated for him, "Why would someone set the computer up for that?"

"To make sure they didn't blow up Bajorans?" Theel seemed to guess.

"Blow up?" Kira repeated in mock surprise.

Theel appeared genuinely surprised. "Well, there _was _a bomb. So why else would they lock the door?"

"The door wasn't locked, Mr. Stirad." Kira left him with that one and went on quickly. "Chief O'Brien then spotted the bomb beside the door."

He waited a moment and then asked innocently, "Is the Chief alright?"

"Quite fine." Kira answered. She watched him for his reaction.

He tried to appear relieved but his surprise showed as well. "But how, if the door was locked?"

"The door wasn't locked, Lieutenant. The doctor opened it easily, just as you said."

"The doctor was with him?"

Kira didn't answer. "You said the door would open for senior staff and medical personnel," Kira repeated for him. "Doctor Bashir is both. The door opened."

"It did."

Kira wasn't quite sure if that was a question or a comment. Stirad almost sounded disappointed. Almost. "And, of course," she said, "the bomb exploded. Why do you suppose this didn't happen when you attempted to leave the cargo bay?"

Theel thought a moment and wiped a bit of sweat from his eyebrow. "I'm a Bajoran," he answered.

"But the computer didn't recognize you as such. It made a point of recognizing Mr. O'Brien," she argued. "And Mr. Ching is human as well. Why didn't it recognize him?"

"I suppose it hadn't been set to do so yet."

"The bomb exploded only twenty minutes after Mr. Ching left the bay."

Theel shifted nervously in his chair.

"And you didn't leave the bay until nine minutes after Mr. Ching. Did the transport take nine minutes?"

"I'm not sure."

"How long did it take you to run your final check on the seals?"

"I don't know."

"Estimate."

"Two minutes." Theel answered quickly. "About two minutes." Now he was really nervous.

"The transport took only five minutes. Your check took two. What did you do in the other two minutes, Mr. Stirad?" Kira asked with satisfaction. This was it. He had to have an answer. If he didn't . . . well, he was their most promising lead yet.

He didn't. He stared at her with his mouth open again. He was trying to think of an answer. Kira didn't let him.

"You did not return to Ops for another eleven minutes. Were the turbolifts not working, Mr. Stirad?"

"Yes," he answered stupidly. "They worked."

"Then what took you so long?"

"I . . . uh, . . . I didn't take the turbolift. I walked."

"Why did you walk, Lieutenant? We've been on yellow alert for the last two days. There have been terrorist attacks every night for the last three days. There's always work that needs to be done. You knew that. Why did you walk?"

"I . . . um. . . ."

"Thank you, Lieutenant." Kira smiled her best hostess smile. "You may go now. You may go back to work."

Theel sat there for a moment before he realized that she had let him go. He pushed himself up from the chair. "My shift is over," he said cautiously.

"Fine, then you're free to go. Thank you for your time."

Odo opened the doors to security and the technician quickly slipped out. He was the last to be questioned. Odo closed the doors again. "You're letting him go?" Odo asked.

"Well, I was hoping we could put him under surveillance," Kira said suggestively. She smiled with satisfaction. She had him. "He's our man, Odo."

Odo nodded. "Computer, locate Stirad Vind."

"Stirad Vind is on the Promenade," the computer answered. It offered a display showing the exact location of the technician, entering the Bajoran temple. Odo left for the temple, and Kira took the turbolift to Ops.

* * *

There was a silence on the _Ranger_. And an anger. The crew was shocked and disheartened. Commander Lairton, now acting captain of the ship, gave the announcement. It was a bad beginning. But the future stood still for no man. The galaxy was waiting beyond the wormhole. The mission would continue. The _Ranger _would set out as soon as her captain's murderer was found.

The entire crew observed two minutes of silence for their fallen captain. Then they went to work. Security was poring through the computer records and questioning everyone on the ship who had come into contact with the captain in the last three days. And the Head of Security headed for the station.

Dr. Pynar sat silently long after the two minutes were up. She tended to be a bit superstitious. The death of the captain before the ship even truly set out on its first mission was a bad omen. As Chief Medical Officer she was entitled to read the station's doctor's preliminary report of the captain's death. Poisoning. By stenacine. A poisonous mixture, made up of sixty-seven percent of a compound recognizable as stenacine, fourteen percent as delactovine, and nine percent of a sole chemical that she had never seen before, had been introduced into the captain's body, resulting in his death at 1237 hours, stardate 47732.6. It was unknown at this time how the poison was introduced or for how long it had remained in his system before causing his death.

Stenacine, by its nature, was a touchy chemical in that it had to be handled delicately. Certain chemicals were known to delay the effects of the anesthetic, others to weaken it. There were still others that should never be mixed with it. Stenacine was, therefore, purely a perscription drug. It could only be replicated on the order of a medical doctor or pharmacist. And it was apparent, by the presence of delactovine, that a doctor or pharmacist had, in fact, replicated it. There was just enough delactovine to delay the effect of the stenacine by twelve hours, not one minute more or less. Someone knew what they were doing.

Pynar suddenly realized what the rumors from the station meant. The Bajoran youth had been killed by a laser scalpel. And now a poisoning. She was a suspect. That was why she had not been invited to examine the captain's body and help in the investigation.

It was ridiculous, unthinkable. She could never kill anyone. She had taken an oath to the contrary. But even more than that, it contradicted everything she believed in about the sanctity of life. But then she was a Zeon. Perhaps that would be seen as a motive for killing the Ekosian captain. But, no, what motive would she have had for the others? The only ones with motives to kill the Ferengi and Gidari were the Bajoran terrorists who had killed the crew of the Teldarian trader vessel. But how could they have replicated the stenacine?

She hadn't done it. It was useless to worry about it, Pynar decided. She had nothing to fear. When the truth was known, she would be fine and the real murderer would be caught. She was not the only suspect. Maylon, too, had the access and experience, as well as Dr. Grant, which was also ridiculous. He would not jeopardize his career and reputation. Bashir, on the station, seemed to be excluded, or someone else would have been called in to examine the bodies.

The Bajorans could not be discounted. They seemed to have complete control of the station's computer, so they could have given themselves clearance to replicate the drug. And the unknown chemical was known to have originated with the Gidari, who had already killed one Starfleet officer. Would they have reason to murder the captain?

"How did it happen?"

Pynar jumped, startled by the voice behind her. She turned off the viewscreen that held the report and turned to see Maylon leaning in the doorway to her office. _He's a suspect, too_, she reminded herself. "I'm sorry, Maylon, it's classified," she replied. "They're still investigating."

Maylon nodded, but he didn't leave the doorway. Pynar studied his face as she waited for him to speak. His eyes were focused on the floor, hidden from her view. His expression was unreadable.

"He was too strict, for my taste," he said finally. His voice was soft, casual but thoughtful. "But I'd hardly wish him dead."

Pynar said nothing, but nodded.

"It hardly bodes well for the ship, losing the captain so soon." He looked up at her. "Are you superstitious?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Pynar lied. She wasn't sure why she lied. Maylon was a doctor like herself. He may have had problems, but he was zealously idealistic when it came to medicine. He had taken an oath as well. But she just couldn't be sure. She could only be sure of herself.

"I'm not so sure we should continue," Maylon went on. "Or maybe I'll just see about a transfer. It's bad luck, losing the captain. I don't trust this ship anymore. She's jinxed."

_You won't get a transfer, Maylon, _Pynar thought, but she didn't tell him. _This ship is your last chance. _"You can try," she said. "But this ship will be headed to the Gamma Quadrant soon."

"Maybe someone doesn't want us to go to the Gamma Quadrant," Maylon suggested quietly, almost conspiratorially.

Pynar laughed. She couldn't help it. Perhaps it was a bit hysterical, to laugh at so tense a time. "The Bajorans told us that the first night we came."


	11. Chapter Eleven

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Eleven**

Theel left the temple still unsettled. He had not found his center. He was unable to find peace. He needed to talk to Inara, but he didn't dare. Not yet, maybe later, if the Prophets willed it.

Why had they let him go? he wondered. Major Kira had acted as if she knew he had set the bomb, as if she'd known all along. She had caught him in his mistakes. But then she had let him go. And the shapeshifter. He had been sitting there the whole time. Odo could be following him now, he thought. He glanced around. Odo could be anything. The wall, the floor, the railing in the turbolift.

The turbolift stopped and Theel stepped out. He turned around so he could watch the doors close behind him. When he did not see anything follow him out, he told himself to be calm and continued toward his quarters. Behind him a golden liquid seeped out from under the turbolift doors. As it spread out, it changed color to match the black floor. Then it silently rolled forward, always melding imperceptibly with the floor.

Theel's door was locked, but the computer recognized him and the door opened. Theel turned and glanced all around the corridor before he entered. The black liquid froze in place until Theel had disappeared behind the door. Then it moved forward again, thinned itself out further and slipped under the door. It stopped at the edge of the door and checked to see if Theel was watching. When Theel's back was turned, the liquid seeped upward, taking on the gray color of the door.

Odo could see Theel from the door. Theel was making a call. He stood in front of a black panel on the wall and waited for his call to be connected. But the call didn't go through. A circular viewscreen did light up on the panel, and a message appeared. Odo was too far away to read it, but he could see Theel's reaction.

Theel's face fell. He was disheartened. He covered his face with his hands, and Odo thought he even started to cry. Then Theel knelt on the floor and began to call on the Prophets for their guidance and assistance. Odo waited.

* * *

It had nearly been just as hard for Chief O'Brien to enter Runabout Pad C as it had to get direct access to the central computer. The door had refused to open. The terrorists, it seemed, had already thought of this possibility. But, in this case, O'Brien had managed to bypass the door's locking mechanism and open it manually. But it didn't get any easier.

To begin with, the Rio Grande's power reserves had been completely emptied. O'Brien and Lieutenant Mir had to restore power before they could even open the cockpit door. Once they were in, things seemed to cooperate. The runabout's onboard computer came online without a hitch. Major Kira joined them there and Lieutenant Mir was ordered back to Ops to monitor their progress from there.

While they worked, Kira filled O'Brien in on the case against Stirad. Odo was following him in the hopes of finding more tangible evidence to link him to the bombing in Cargo Bay Seven. She hadn't heard from him for several hours. O'Brien admitted that he didn't really know Stirad. He was a new technician. He'd only been on the station for about four months. He was polite enough, but he seemed to keep to himself as many of the Bajorans did.

He wondered, too, without saying anything to Kira, if there was anyone else in the crew who couldn't be trusted. Not Kira herself, of course. She'd proven herself many times from the beginning. She often disagreed with the Federation and her provisional government, but she always thought about what was best for the station as well as for her own people. O'Brien felt he understood Kira, at least in part. He had fought against the Cardassians as well. He knew what they were like, why she hated them.

But many of the other Bajorans were just crew members, just names on the roster. They also kept to themselves and did not seem interested in getting to know their Federation crewmates. Were they just antisocial, or weary of entanglements with other races? Or were they covering up an alterior motive? How many more were like Stirad? Like Neela had been. Was Mir?

But then it became time. The runabout was ready, but the overhead doors were tightly secured, and the pad refused to lift. They were unable to launch. O'Brien grumbled as he left the runabout. It seemed he'd been on his hands and knees for the last two days. And he'd have to be again. He had to get those doors open.

* * *

Dr. Bashir stood over Captain Gerin with his tricorder, scanning his body once again. There had to be something missing. He hoped for an increased concentration of chemicals or precipitant that might have indicated how the poison was introduced, but the Gidari chemical had carried the poison from the blood stream directly into the cells themselves. There was an equal concentration thoughout his body. There was no way to know if the poison was ingested or injected or even absorbed through the skin.

And deciding even when the poisoning took place was just as uncertain. Stenacine, the main contributor to Gerin's death, normally acted very quickly, within seconds of injection. But when mixed with other chemicals or compounds, its effects could be delayed or weakened or strengthened. It was volatile and unproducable without a medical or pharmaceutical license.

The Gidari chemical, when Bashir and Dax had analyzed it the night before, had proven to be volatile as well. If mixed with the other Gidari chemical, the one Dax had been given, it had become deadly. It was still a mystery in many ways. What reaction would it have when mixed with the already altered stenacine? The evidence showed that Gerin's brain and nervous system shut down in response to the large dosage of stenacine Gerin was given. But there was no lasting evidence of damage caused by the Gidari chemical itself.

It was a risk. The stenacine itself was sufficient to cause death. The stimulant, delactovine, delayed the death, making it harder to pinpoint the time of poisoning and, therefore, the killer. But the Gidari chemical was an unknown to everyone, except the Gidari themselves. It could have weakened the effects of the stenacine, merely putting Gerin in a coma for a time. Or it could have caused him to drop dead right on the spot.

"Someone was experimenting," Bashir said suddenly. He turned away from the body, and Nurse Jabara covered again it with a blanket.

"What do you mean, Julian?" Dax asked. She was sitting at the computer running simulations of each compound with its reaction to all the others.

"It couldn't have been the Gidari. If it was the Gidari, and they wanted to kill him, they wouldn't have let him walk around. They would have waited to destroy the body, like they did with Tsingras. It's not them," Bashir stated. He walked back to where Dax was and leaned over the back of her chair. "But they're the only ones who could have known, for certain, what that chemical would have done with stenacine."

Dax nodded and thought for a moment. "He had to have access to medical or scientific computers," she added. "He couldn't have worked out all the reactions himself."

"Right," Bashir agreed. "He didn't work this out from the comfort of his own quarters. And he couldn't have replicated the stenacine without the proper clearance. So it's got to be medical personnel and not some retired nurse or med-tech from the camps."

"Unless it's one who has control of the computer," Dax argued. "You have a list of seventeen left-handed suspects with medical experience. The majority of those are Bajoran. Maybe it _is _our terrorists. They have complete access to the computers. And they've flouted every other security clearance. Why not a medical one?"

Bashir nodded and sat down beside her. That was true. They had bypassed security features that required his authorization in order to kill Targo Hern in the detention cell. They could get the stenacine easily. But how could they have administered it? "But did they have the opportunity to poison the captain?"

Dax leaned back in her chair and thought about it. "They could have when they beamed onto the _Ranger _after taking our computer down," she suggested.

Bashir shook his head. "Gerin would have reported seeing an intruder. He was alive and well for long enough after it happened. It had to be done when he wasn't looking or expecting it. It could have been in his food. What about the replicators?"

Dax checked the captain's schedule for the last three days. Sisko had provided the schedule. compliments of Commander Lairton, the new acting commander of the _USS Ranger_. "He did put in a request to have it serviced," she noted.

"The replicator still needs repair, but there's no sign of tampering or poison."

Dax and Bashir both swung their chairs around to see who had spoken. A Bolian male stood in the Infirmary doorway. He wore a gold Starfleet uniform from the _Ranger_. He introduced himself as Lieutenant Commander Merot, Head of Security. Then he continued with his report on the replicator. "We have replicated every meal the captain had eaten from there for the last week. All tests for the chemicals mentioned in your report were negative."

"Has he eaten anywhere else?" Bashir asked.

"He has eaten four meals on this station," Merot related. "And he had dinner, in your presence, with Doctor Grant two nights ago. Grant's replicator, as well as all others on the _Ranger_, checks out."

"So someone would have had to put it directly into his food," Bashir concluded, "which rules out terrorists beaming onto the _Ranger_."

"But not necessarily those on the station," Dax added. "And look at this, Julian." She pointed to the screen that held the captain's schedule. He was treated for a fractured hand yesterday. Doctor Maylon treated him and reported giving him condrofen."

"I didn't find any traces of condrofen in the body," Bashir said, looking at the records. "But it was a rather long period of time. Condrofen is a local anesthetic. It might not appear so late."

"A murderer would not be above falsifying medical records," Merot pointed out. "You knew Doctor Maylon previously," he said, addressing Bashir. "Did he have any psychological disorders that you are aware of?"

"Not really," Bashir answered. "But I'm not a psychologist, and that was several years ago." Maylon was moody, introverted and strange, but was he a murderer? And what about Dr. Grant? He'd had ample opportunity to put the poison in Gerin's plate before anyone arrived for dinner. Bashir remembered Grant's wandering, bloodshot eyes that night. If he was taking something . . . but he was a doctor. He would know better. _Perhaps_, Bashir thought, _I _am _letting my personal feelings get in the way. _"But that means we still have a long list of suspects," he added. "Maylon had the opportunity in sickbay, and Grant had it at dinner."

"And any number of Bajorans had opportunity here on the station," Dax finished for him.

"You were both also present at dinner in Doctor Grant's quarters two nights ago," Merot hinted dispassionately.

Bashir almost laughed. The Bolian was intimating that they had the opportunity as well. "But we were not present at the three other murders," Bashir pointed out. "And the evidence points logically to the conclusion that the murders, not including the bombings and the ritual death of Ensign Tsingras, were all carried out by the same individual. Now, take the Ferengi for an example. I was here, in the Infirmary, treating a patient when he had his throat slit."

"And I was in Ops," Dax joined in. "And both of us have witnesses."

"I'm not even left-handed" Bashir added. "You need to talk to Security. Ask for the reports on the other three victims. But I'd ask nicely if I were you." Bashir knew, as did most of the crew, how Odo did not like Starfleet personnel trying to take over his investigations. Sisko had had to talk him out of resigning several times in the last two years.

"I will do that," Merot said. He turned and disappeared out the door.

The door opened again, and a Bajoran couple came in. The man was supporting the woman, who held her stomach and grimaced in pain. "Doctor," the man said, "you've got to help my wife."

"Of course." Bashir jumped up from his chair. "Bring her here." He led them to a biobed. The husband lifted his wife and laid her down. She could not lay flat on her back because of the pain, and she turned onto her side, pulling her legs toward her chest. She held weakly to her husband's arm with one hand and still clutched her stomach with the other.

The biobed lit up when she was laid down. Her pulse and blood pressure were low. And her blood was laced with Dax's Gidari chemical, along with a high dosage of stenacine and delactovine. She'd been poisoned. But this time, it was in the blood. They had a chance. "Nurse, let's start a transfusion."

* * *

Finally the overhead doors opened, and the runabout was cleared for launch. Kira waited for O'Brien to return, and the pad began to lift. She raised the _Rio Grande _smoothly off the pad and put her into position two hundred meters from the station.

"Okay," she said. "Let's see what we can do from up here." She activated the sensors and began a scan of the station. But a scan wasn't even necessary. O'Brien could see with his own eyes, through the main viewscreen, the explosion on the habitat ring. A viewport on level three flared a bright red and orange before it dulled and smouldered there.

"Deep Space Nine to _Rio Grande_," Mir's hurried voice broke through the silence as O'Brien watched.

Kira answered the call. "Lieutenant. Report. What happened down there?"

"No time for that, Major," Mir dismissed her. "Someone's taken over remote control of the runabout."

It was true. The _Rio Grande _had been holding position, but now, it began to move. It turned away from the station. Kira reached for the controls to block any signals from the station. But it was too late. O'Brien felt the calm tingling of the transporter and saw the transporter's shimmering curtain fall over Kira as well. The ability to move freely left him, and he watched Kira and the bright interior of the runabout disappear. And then through the glistening effect, he glimpsed the black, Cardassian corridors of the station they had just left.

* * *

Theel held the bomb as he appeared to pray to the Prophets. It was better this way, he thought, quick and painless, than to suffocate in the detention cell as Targo had done. And safer, too. Theel was not sure of his own strength. Would he talk? Would he tell them where to find Inara if they promised to save him? He'd always thought he would be strong enough, but now he wasn't sure.

But the bomb took all question of his courage away. He would not survive the blast. He could be sure of that. Arming the bomb and setting it to explode in five minutes, he forced his mind to turn away from his death and to look toward the Prophets. His life was over. He needed to find his center before the end came. He needed to be at peace.

As he found it, his sense of time faded away. It didn't matter anymore. Four minutes. Four seconds. It was all the same. Life. Death. There was no real difference. There was no sound, no sight, except the red blinking light that was visible through his closed eyelids. He could almost feel the presence of the Prophets with him there in the room. It comforted him. He would see them soon enough. The light became a solid red. The presence of the Prophets was nearer. It was time.

And in one instant, the bomb was thrown from his hands. Something like a blanket of water surrounded him. The bomb exloded, and Theel felt the fire, welcomed it. It would take him to the Prophets. _So this is death_, he thought. He'd hardly felt the pain. His body tingled, and his thoughts ceased.

But only for that instant. The tingling stopped, and the pain and burning returned. The blanket fell away and he opened his eyes to find himself kneeling not in the celestial temple with the Prophets, but in a brightly lit infirmary. His hands were burned nearly black. A form began to rise from the floor. As it rose, it took on a humanoid shape until Odo was standing in front of him. Small pieces of the bomb's casing lay at his feet.

* * *

It wasn't working. The transfusion wasn't helping the Bajoran woman. Her husband stood nearby, a pained and worried expression frozen on his face as he watched. His wife was dying. She had slipped into a coma soon after her husband had brought her in. Three other Bajorans and a human had arrived after her, all holding their abdomens. The last had barely been able to stand when he came to the door. All of them had the same symptoms. All of them had been poisoned, and all were now unconscious, slipping closer and closer to death.

Dr. Bashir was sure this time that the poison had been ingested. When two Klingons staggered into the Infirmary with the same diagnosis, Bashir began to suspect just where the poisoning had taken place. Bashir turned away from the computer to face the Bajoran woman's husband. "Where did you have lunch?" he asked.

The man didn't seem to hear. He was lost in his anxiety for his wife. Finally, the question seemed to sink in. He started, then answered, "Here, on the Promenade," as if he couldn't understand why the doctor had asked. "The Klingon place."

That made sense, since the two Klingons were sharing the woman's fate. But Bashir needed more information. "What did you eat?"

"Pipius claw," the man replied, "but only a little. I didn't like it. I was just trying it, something new."

"And your wife?" Dax asked.

"Gagh," he answered, making a face. "She loved it. But I can't eat something that's still moving."

"I'll go," Dax offered, reading Bashir's mind.

"Check everything," Bashir called after her as she ran out the door.

"Doctor?" the man asked, looking at Bashir for the first time since he brought his wife in, "she's going to be alright, isn't she?"

That's the one thing Bashir hated about being a doctor. How could he tell this man that his wife would die? He couldn't. "I'll do everything I can," he answered. At least that was an honest answer.

He just wasn't sure there was anything more he could do. Every simulation he ran through the computer came up negative. Stenacine, by its nature, was a rather dominant drug. Stimulants were unable to counteract it. Every treatment he could think of had no effect. The only hope was that the victims could outlast the effects. He needed to somehow keep them alive long enough for the stenacine to wear off. And with the amount they each had ingested, that would take days.

Meanwhile the monitors above the biobeds noted the slow but constant drop in neural activity. The neural stimulator caused a slight and only temporary rise in brain functioning. Thirty seconds later they were back where they started. Slowly shutting down. Dying.

A glimmering ghost of colored light manifested itself in the middle of the floor, and Bashir watched the apparition appear. As the transporter effect faded, a semi-transparent, golden liquid, like a curtain half the height of a man became visible. Odo. As soon as the transporter released them, Odo melted to the floor, and reformed, standing beside the kneeling man he uncovered.

The man was Bajoran, and he looked up with surprise, holding his burned hands in front of him as if he'd just been praying. His face was burned as well. "There's been another bomb," Odo said with obvious annoyance. "This man set it."

Bashir sighed. He didn't have time to deal with this. "And I've had six more poisonings," Bashir returned, hauling the frightened Bajoran to his feet. He sat him on a biobed and ran a scan for other injuries. The burns on his hands were bad, third-degree, those on his face were less serious. "Are you alright?" he asked Odo over his shoulder.

"I believe so. He's not to leave the Infirmary," Odo said, indicating the man. Then he called for a security officer to guard him. "Don't include him in your log for now, either. If he has accomplices, I don't want them to know he's here." A security officer entered, and Odo left without another word.

"What about my wife?" the husband asked. His face was a blend of worry, astonishment, and anger. "He's a terrorist. My wife is dying. He might have even done this to her."

"Mr. Jube, please," Bashir sighed. He was too tired for this. "I'm the only doctor on this station. I have to do my best for all the patients that come in here. No matter who they are or what they've done." Bashir said this even as he was treating the man's more serious burns. The man was lucky; he'd been brought here quickly. His skin could heal.

"Dax to Bashir."

Bashir touched his comm badge to answer the call. "Yes, Jadzia? Did you find it?"

"Yes, Julian. It's in the gagh. It's all dead now, Julian. I've checked everything else here, and talked to the propietor. The two Klingons you've got did eat here, as well as the other Bajorans and Ensign Fromme. They all ate the gagh."

"Bring some of it to the Infirmary," Bashir suggested. "It might help." _It can't make it any worse_, he thought. Bashir left the terrorist to his nurse and returned to the computer.

He thought about the husband. He was tortured, standing there by his wife, waiting for her to get better. As much as Bashir wanted to console him, he needed to know the truth, to prepare for it. "Mr. Jube," he began, meeting him by the biobed, "I _am _going to do everything I can, but I think you need to know what we're up against." He took a breath and thought for a moment. He wanted to say this the right way and not sound cold or too exhausted to care. "Your wife has ingested four cc's of a drug called stenacine. It's an anesthetic. Four cc's is too much. Under normal circustances, Mr. Jube, she wouldn't have survived the first three minutes. She also ingested another drug which slows down the flow of blood. This is why she's still alive. It's slowed down the stenacine. This much stenacine has always proven fatal in someone with your wife's metabolism. But I'm going to do everything I can to change that."

Jube went back to his shocked and worried silence. He nodded but didn't say anything. Perhaps he felt that speaking would make it true, and he didn't want to believe that it was true. He didn't want to face that.

* * *

Dr. Grant sat on the floor, leaning his back against the sofa. He was wrapped in a blanket against the cold. His quarters weren't cold; he was. He had the chills. Maylon was right. Stenacine was addictive, and Dr. Grant knew that better than anyone. But he could no longer think about it objectively. The stenacine pushed the memories away. That was more important than anything else now. More important than his career and more important than his life.

He was ashamed. He had made a mess of his life. It was all too apparent now. That station, the dark, imposing, sinister-looking station had made it clear to him. Because on that station was everything he'd tried to hide or forget or run away from for the last quarter of a century. His son. And his son would not forgive him. Why should he?

Those memories haunted him, tortured him when he slept. The hypospray blocked out the memories and let him sleep in peaceful blackness. But being here, at this station, seeing his son, the memories had come to him even in the day. They seeped into his mind, taking over until he could no longer see the present. And then he needed the hypospray to push them away again. But that was getting dangerously close to an overdose. It didn't matter to him now.

Grant was beginning to feel everything slip away. He worried that he would lose everything he had. His career would be ruined, because of the legal problems that most likely would arise. He could lose his medical license because of his addiction. His children would abandon him out of anger and hurt. He would be a disgrace to his family. He could not imagine living that way. It was better to die, remembered as a loving father, a famous scientist, a good doctor. That was better than living as a disgrace.

But if Bashir would forgive him, release him from his guilt, he wouldn't be a disgrace. He could put it behind him. He had to call the children, tell them the truth. Then he would talk to Bashir again and try to make him understand what had happened, that it really wasn't his fault. He hadn't acted rationally, or even sanely, after the fire. There had been a rage inside him, not even so much at the boy, but at death. Death had taken Helen away from him. But the boy had lived.

It was not a trade Grant would have made voluntarily. If they had both died there in the house, everything would have been different. He could have grieved for them both without shame or guilt. And if Helen had not gone into the house after the boy, it could have been almost perfect. They would have been sad for a time, but they would have gotten through it. Together. That was the way it should have been, if one of them had had to die. Better, of course, if it had never happened at all.

If it had never happened, they'd all still be together. There'd be no grief, no sadness, no guilt, or shame. That would have been perfect. But now there was all of those things, and so many more. They were heavy things to carry around for so many years. And one way or another, they had to go.

* * *

Sisko watched stoically as the Teldarian ambassador stabbed the control in front of her, cutting off the transmission. Then he took a deep breath and braced himself for the next call. When it didn't come, he relaxed just a bit and rolled the baseball in his hands. Its round surface pressing against his palms and fingers had at least a slightly soothing effect. But he was still quite tense.

Twenty people dead in the last thirty-six hours. Six poisoning victims dying in the Infirmary. And the danger wasn't over. Two terrorists were among the dead. Another had been taken into custody. But O'Brien seemed sure that there was at least one more. The one who had the computer at his disposal. And the murders. The terrorist boy and four Bajorans in the Infirmary apparently confirmed Bashir's hypothesis that the murderer was not one of the Bajoran terrorists. But they were still no closer to catching him.

Calls had been pouring in since lunch from the Teldarians, the Klingons, the Bajoran provisional government. The Teldarians complained of the inadequate security on the station. The Bajorans wanted to know why Bajoran citizens were not being better protected. The Klingons, furious as they were over their crewmates poisoning, at least had had the consideration to aim their anger at the proper target. The _Nej_'s captain had offered to help find the terrorists and/or the murderer and string them up on the Promenade as a deterent to others who might have similar ideas. Sisko had declined. He believed in his crew. They could defend this station. They would find the answers.

"Commander," a voice said over the comm line, "Captian Sanglin Nardek of the _Gindarin _insists that he speak to you."

_What does he want? _Sisko wondered. The Gidari had caused too much trouble themselves to bother with insisting on anything. "Put him through," Sisko said, putting the baseball back down on his desk. He sat up straighter and prepared himself for the next onslaught of accusations and demands.

* * *

Kira was surprised the hull had held together. The walls in Stirad's quarters were no longer there. They had been ripped apart by the blast, exposing the raw hull along the back. The quarters to the sides were both visible through the pieces of metal that hung from the torn ceiling. The viewport had been cracked, but it too had held. O'Brien had it sealed before anyone was allowed to enter the area.

The bomb Stirad had held in his hand was only one of several that were hidden in the quarters. That one caused the others to explode putting holes in the floors and ceiling and destroying everything Stirad and Lieutenant Mesil, the other occupant, had owned. Mesil was fortunately on duty. He wouldn't have survived if he'd been home. Stirad himself was only saved by Odo and the quick reflexes of Lieutenant Mir on the transporter. Kira hoped no one else had been home.

Kira wrinkled her nose. The smell of smoke was strong in the blackened room. She was turning black as well, crouching down toward the charred floor. Debris crunched under her feet whenever she shifted her balance. She was collecting fragments from the bombs.

"Major!" one of the officers called from the next room, if it could still be called that. It had been the quarters of Stirad's neighbors. The urgency in the woman's voice pulled Kira to her feet.

Kira stepped carefully but quickly across the floor toward where the officer was standing. Her boot got caught in a weak spot on the floor, and she twisted her ankle. The officer, a human, was looking frantically around the room. She held a tricorder in her hand. "I've got life-signs," she said.

Someone had been home. "Where?" Kira asked.

The woman studied the tricorder for a moment later and then answered, "There." She was pointing to a large lump of broken, burnt furniture, jagged metal, bits of walls and glass. Light rained down from the hole in the ceiling just above. "It's very faint."

Kira didn't have to say anything. They both ran toward the pile and began to throw the debris away. The officer set the tricorder on the floor. Kira could hear it beeping slowly and irregularly with the pulse of whoever was underneath the mess.

"My God!" the woman breathed. One soot-covered hand covered her mouth. "It's a child," she said. A small foot protuded from the mound. It twitched. She returned to her work, tossing the rubble aside.

The beeping from the tricorder came faster. The life-signs were stronger. Kira's anger was building as her hands dug into the still-warm debris. A child. How could they justify hurting children? It was so selfish. Stirad, if that was really his name, had been so intent on his own suicide. He didn't think what it would do to those around him. He wouldn't have even cared.

The pulse was too fast. It was racing. Kira tried to count it as she worked, but she lost her concentration. She could see the purple material of a little girl's dress. They were getting close. Then the beeping stopped. They froze, waiting to hear another beat. The tricorder was silent.

"We've got to get her out," the officer pleaded.

Kira nodded. They worked harder, uncovering an arm, a leg, the body. She was Bajoran and she was dead. She looked to be about seven years old.

The woman flopped down onto the floor and rested her head on one hand. She stared at the little girl, bloody and dirty, lying there among the rubble. "I have a little girl," she said.

Kira didn't say anything. She couldn't say anything. The human woman was shocked, saddened. Kira was furious and even more determined to find Stirad's partners. Stirad would pay for this. She tapped her comm badge. It chirped open. She leaned over the mess and gently lifted the girl up in her arms. "Two to transport," she said, "to the Infirmary." As she and the girl disappeared, she saw the human woman still staring at the place where the girl had lain.

* * *

Inara heard the whispers as she walked down the Promenade to the turbolift. Another bomb. On the habitat ring. Theel had been caught. It was the only explanation. He was about to be caught and took the quick way out. Her first thought was to think him a fool again. But maybe he was right in choosing that method over the security cell. The bomb probably destroyed any evidence that could tie him to her or the Elders. _To the Prophets, Theel Vind_, she thought, _but you're still a fool. _

The turbolift stopped, and she hurried to her quarters. She sighed and stretched her arms. It had been a long day at work. And boring too. There weren't that many customers after all that had happened. The poisonings after lunch had driven all but the most die-hard Promenade perusers back into their quarters behind locked doors.

Inara sat down and pulled the computer from its hiding place under her bed. When she switched it on, a message flashed on the screen telling her that the prefix code for the runabout _Rio Grande _had been accessed and utilized. So they'd tried the runabout. It was about time. She was surprised they hadn't tried it sooner.

But, of course, it was futile. She had thought of it first. The minute the pad began to lift, it triggered a simple batch file that would enter the prefix code that Theel had bought for whichever runabout was taken out. Once it had the prefix code, the computer would have control of its counterpart on the runabout. Any command for the station's tractor beam would be locked into a loop that would not be broken until the onboard crew was transported back to the station and the runabout was out of range. The runabout would be left derelict, orbitting the planet.

And it had all worked according to plan. _Now to see about that bomb_, Inara thought as she pulled up a display of the security files. Security estimated that at least four bombs had gone off in Lieutenant Stirad Vind's quarters destroying it and several neighboring quarters as well. Two deaths were reported. Stirad Vind was one of them. "To the Prophets," she repeated aloud.

But one disturbing thing remained. Theel had made a call before he set the bomb. He'd contacted those on the planet's surface. He was a fool. Odo had already traced the transmission. Inara doubted now that there would be anyone left to fight for by morning. The Elders themselves were in danger. They would follow Targo Kob's example. They would not betray their cause. The cause would die with them.

Inara felt the end of everything pulling close to her. Her quarters seemed cold and damp, but she knew that was just a reflection of what she was feeling on the inside. She felt sure then that she, too, would not be alive by morning. She felt alone. The end was coming, and she was alone. So be it. She would find Liian's killer, and she would end it, alone.

* * *

Theel Vind sat on the edge of the biobed, dangling his feet off the side. It was the only piece of furniture in the cubicle to sit on. In fact, there was nothing else in the cubicle at all. He held his hands gingerly in his lap. He was afraid to move them, afraid they might still hurt.

This was not the way it was supposed to be. He had failed. Odo had followed him after all. He was alive, and everything was in jeopardy. _Oh, but what does it matter now?_ he thought. The Elders were gone. Targo Kob had died in custody, fulfilling his duty as his brother Hern had done here on the station. His wife, Dain, had followed him to the Prophets. That was the message he'd received in his quarters. The Movement was gone. Without the Elders to lead them, there was nothing left.

Nothing left but a life in prison. From his cubicle, Theel could see the security guard that stood at attention beside the door. He could also see the medical staff packing up another body, a Bajoran man. He saw Major Kira beam in with a little girl in her arms. The girl's arms hung limply toward the floor. Kira saw him, too. She looked at him angrily after she laid the girl down on a biobed. The doctor shook his head. The girl's skin was black with soot and smoke. Her dress was torn. The girl must have been dead. The doctor deactivated the biobed.

Theel waited to see if Kira would come to him. She talked to the doctor for a few moments. She was furious. But when she looked at him again, Theel thought she looked confident and maybe even triumphant. _Why not? _he thought. They had him. And there was nothing he could do. He had failed. And he was afraid. What would they do to him to make him talk? Would he talk? Would he betray Inara? She was the only hope now. She could still carry out their mission. The Elders may have been gone, but the Prophets were not. Bajor was not.

Kira walked toward him, and the door to his cubicle opened, allowing the sounds of the Infirmary to sweep in for a moment. A man was crying softly somewhere. The door closed, and the sound was abruptly cut off. Kira faced him from the door. "What's your name?"

Did she have to be so direct? he thought. She wasted no time. But he should have been moved to Security. "You know my name," he said, disappointed in his voice. It shook just a little. She would see his anxiety.

"For you, it's over," Kira stated, crossing her arms over her chest. "I want your real name."

Stall. He had to stall. They couldn't keep him in the Infirmary. His hands were better. They had to take him to Security. The program would take over then, and the poison would finish what Odo had interrupted. "What's over?" he asked, trying to appear confused.

She wasn't buying it. Her cool expression slipped, and her anger began to show again. "Give it up. Odo followed you to your quarters. We found the remains of four bombs in there. A Bajoran girl died because of those bombs. Did the Prophets tell you to kill that girl?"

"No," he said. And then he regretted it. He'd practically confessed with that one word. But then she was right. Odo had followed him. They already knew about him. Maybe it would be better if he did talk, but only about certain things. "They told me to kill myself," he admitted.

"How convenient," she snapped. "Your name."

That couldn't hurt. He'd be convicted of terrorism with or without his real name. "Theel."

Kira relaxed slightly. "Theel what?"

"Theel Vind."

"Who are you working with, Theel Vind?"

That would hurt. "No one," he said. It was the first answer he could think of. Sacrifice was what the bomb and the poison had been about. Perhaps he could sacrifice himself in a different way.

"Wrong answer."

"I work alone," he insisted, putting on his own confident air. Inside he trembled and hoped that she believed him.

"Wrong again." She turned away and paced a few steps along the cubicle's wall. "Let's start from the beginning. Which bombs did you set?"

"All of them," Theel held.

"Refresh my memory, please," Kira turned on him. Sarcasm sparked in her eyes and mocked him from her smile.

"I don't understand." He was stalling again, trying to make time to think of all the bombs.

"The first bomb," Kira clarified. "Where was it?"

Theel wanted to answer quickly, boldly. But he had to think, and it seemed to him a horribly long silence as he did so. "Uh . . . in Finley's quarters."

"When?"

"Two nights ago," Theel answered. He remembered seeing the reports on that one in Ops in the morning. He became more assured. He could remember them all. "The second and third were on the docking ring last night. The Teldarian ship at Docking Port 4. The fourth was here on the Promenade. I took out the Cardassian's shop. Then the cargo bay, the one with the bodies, this morning before lunchtime. Any other questions?"

"Yes," Kira answered, not impressed or shocked in the least. "If you set all the bombs, who was the boy we found dead in the Cardassian's shop yesterday morning with one of your bombs?"

The boy. He'd forgotten the boy. He had to be careful. "Just a boy. He had tried to stop me," Theel answered.

"And you killed him," Kira concluded. Theel nodded, and she asked, "With what?"

Theel didn't know. His breath stopped as he searched desparately in his memory for how Fin had been killed. Inara hadn't said. He hadn't seen the medical reports. He was only a technician. "A knife," he answered finally, thinking of the Ferengi. Everyone knew he'd been killed with a knife. But now he could be blamed for those murders as well.

"What kind of knife?"

"Huh?" Theel was confused.

"What kind of knife?" Kira repeated. "A knife for food, or a weapon? Was it ordinary or ceremonial? Klingon or Bajoran? What kind of knife?"

"A normal one," Theel said slowly. He didn't know. The Ferengi was killed at Quark's. Maybe it was a steak knife. "For food."

"The boy was not killed with a knife," Kira stated. "Try again. Who was he?"

_Plan B? _He had to think of a plan B. He had an idea. Kira had been in the resistance as well. She knew how such groups worked. "You're right. I wasn't working alone," he admitted. "The boy was with me. His name was Fin Liian. And Targo, too. You should know, Major, that we work in threes. Targo set the first bomb. The others were mine."

"And the computer?"

"I know my way around computers, Major," Theel replied arrogantly.

She didn't sound convinced. "Then how did you get security clearance?"

"Anything can be bought on this station," he said with contempt. That at least had been the truth. This was going too far though. If he wasn't careful, he'd give everything away, including Inara. He had to stop it. He had to get to Security. "If you plan to charge me with something, Major," he finally said, "then take me into custody properly. You can't keep me here. I have rights. And I want an advocate."

"An advocate can't help you now," she told him. "What about the Ferengi? Did you kill him?"

Theel opened his mouth to say no, but caught himself. "I won't say anything more to you without an advocate and proper charges."

"The Gidari? The captain of the _Ranger_?" She pointed to the Infirmary where an human woman was being put into a plastic bag and loaded onto a stretcher. "What about them? Did you poison them?"

Theel clenched his jaw tight. He had to keep quiet even if she thought he had done it. Bajorans had been killed by the poison. He wouldn't have done that. The little girl was an accident. Those things happened in the struggle for freedom. It was regrettable, but it really wasn't his fault.

Kira's jaws clenched, too. Then she said, "You will be charged. With terrorism, destruction of property, and murder. You'll be in detention soon enough." She turned on her heels and slipped out before the door had completly hissed open.

Theel blew his breath out and relaxed. His shoulders ached from the tension. He had sat so still, so rigidly, that his muscles ached. At least she was gone. Kira would return, he was sure. But for now Inara was safe to carry out their mission with or without the Elders for guidance.


	12. Chapter Twelve

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Twelve**

Dr. Bashir stood over the first Klingon watching the monitors above his head. He was improving. So was his companion. But the Bajorans and the human were gone. Each of them had slowly faded, one by one, until there was no neural activity at all. The neural stimulator had had no effect. The Klingons were faring better, hanging on, though not with much. They wouldn't be leaving the Infirmary soon, but they just might survive.

But five others had not been so lucky. The Klingons had redundant systems that other species didn't have. This was the only solution Bashir could find to why they were faring so much better. Klingons were built for survival. But Bashir kept coming back to the others. Five more deaths. And then the little girl. It was too many. He tried to remember how many bodies were were located in the cargo bay. Gerin had been returned to the _Ranger_. That left twenty-three.

Dax had gone back to her laboratory with the poisoned gagh. The terrorist had been taken to Security. And the nurse was monitoring the remaining patients. The Infirmary was quiet. Bashir yawned and sat down at the computer console. Twenty-three dead in three days. _How many more until it is over? _he wondered. It was depressing. He rested his head on his hands and closed his eyes for a few minutes.

The door opened and his first thought was that it was another poisoning or another bomb. But it was Grant. Bashir couldn't decide which was worse.

"I know you don't want to talk to me," Grant said, more confidently that the last time he'd come. "But I need to talk to you."

Grant was right. He did not want to talk to him. But he couldn't just dismiss him as he had before. The nurse was watching. Bashir looked to the cubicle where the terrorist had been held. It was sound-proof. At least there would be privacy there. "Not here." Bashir sighed and stood again, leading Grant into the cubicle. The door shut and there was silence as both waited for the other to begin speaking.

"I really haven't got time for this," Bashir told him, turning his back on the older man. "With all that's gone on here on the station. . . ."

"I realize that," Grant interrupted. "But it's the only time I've got. After all that is solved, the _Ranger_ will leave the station and so will I."

"Good," Bashir said tersely.

"Julian, you're not being fair."

Julian sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Fair? Since when did 'fair' ever come into this?" he asked sardonically. But he didn't raise his voice. He was too tired at the moment. "You were never fair to me."

"I know," Grant admitted. "I wasn't. And perhaps, I'm still not, but I can't let it rest any longer, not with you here, so close. I've got to settle it, Julian. I can't go on with this on my conscience."

Bashir turned to face him again. "Why should I care what you've got on your conscience?" he asked, letting his voice raise a bit. "I personally hope it tortures you for the rest of your life."

"You don't mean that," Grant said.

"Don't you tell me what I mean and what I don't," Bashir returned, pointing an angry finger at him. "After what you did to me, I don't care about your feelings at all. Why should I? What have you done for me?"

"I gave you life." Hope filled Grant's eyes. "I taught you to read."

Bashir hadn't wanted an answer. "You buried me," he shot back.

"I had to do that," Grant tried to explain. He sat down on the edge of the biobed. It was the only thing in the room. "If I told them you had died, I had to bury you. It was all part of the same lie. I couldn't face the truth then, I had to play along."

"Without a thought as to how I felt, what was happening to me?" Julian asked, letting the feelings come back to him. They'd been buried underneath the concerns of the bombs and poisonings. The anger surfaced first. Everything else seemed to be tied up in a aching ball in his stomach. "You didn't think about me then and you're not now. So what's different? You want me to take the last twenty-five years and just forget it? Just like that?"

"You won't even give me a chance," Grant protested. "I could be a good father or maybe just a friend. I don't have to be your father."

"You're not," Julian defiantly held.

"I need your forgiveness!" Grant said, his voice raising just a bit. "I want to make it up to you. Why won't you give me a chance?"

"Because you betrayed me!" Julian answered, "You hurt me. You left me alone. You abandoned me. Because you're inhuman. Because it makes me sick to think of what you did. Even if it hadn't been to me."

Grant stood. His self-assured manner had returned. He was not the weak old man Bashir had had to confront yesterday. "I'm not inhuman. Humans make mistakes. That's what I did. I made a mistake. A big one. But a mistake." He took a deep breath and spoke slowly, carefully. "I betrayed you. You can't betray someone if he hates you. There has to be something to betray."

Julian corrected him, "It's because you betrayed me that I hate you." He paused for a moment, trying to put his words together carefully. It was getting harder. He wasn't sure if he was too upset or just too exhausted. But his thoughts came in jumbles and snatches of memories. The fire, the hospital, the pain, the fear. "I trusted you then. You were my father. I looked up to you. I wanted to be just like you. You were my hero."

"I looked up to my father the same way when I was young," Grant said. "But as I grew older I realized that he was only as human as I was."

"How can you compare you and I?" Julian turned on him. "You had a childhood. You grew older with your father. I lost that. I didn't grow older. Not with you. I was four, still a child, still trusting. It ended there."

"I know. I know." Grant was becoming impatient. "I've said it over and over again. I know what I did was wrong. I know I betrayed your trust. I know that I only made it worse by covering up the truth. I know that you're angry with me. I know that you have every right to be. And I know that you don't want to forgive me."

"Then why don't you just leave me alone?" Julian turned away again and walked around to the other side of the biobed. "I don't need you, and I certainly don't want you. I don't want to see you or talk to you. I don't want to know you. Go away."

"No," Grant said. He held out his hand toward Bashir. "I won't go. I can't go. Maybe you can go on with this now. But I can't. For me it just gets worse. _I _need _you_."

"Then you should have thought about that before now," Julian argued loudly, leaning forward across the biobed.

"I couldn't then," Grant pleaded. "I told you that. I wasn't in my right mind then. Losing your mother was a trauma for me."

Grant's words brought the hurt to the fore. Julian looked Grant in the eyes and said quietly, "But losing me wasn't." He hadn't meant to sound so sad. He felt his face turning red and turned away.

"If it wasn't I wouldn't be here now," Grant said, matching his tone. "I loved you just as much as I loved your brother and sister. I was in the delivery room when you were born. I was so happy then. Each time a child was born was the happiest day of my life. You say you remember everything. Do you remember your first birthday? I do. You were sitting at the table with a piece of chocolate cake. And instead of eating it, you gave it to the kitten, piece by piece.

"Do you remember the cat? She used to jump into your crib and sleep on your feet. She did that every night until the fire. You couldn't go to sleep unless you heard her purring. You used to carry her around under your arm. She was always just about to fall, but she loved you anyway. You were her favorite."

Bashir didn't want to answer. He could remember, but only a little. Those memories were just fleeting glimpses of the past. They faded almost as soon as they appeared.

"Do you remember," Grant continued, "how George would tease you because he was bigger than you and you would run to me for help? And that would only make George more angry. He missed having you around, you know? Do you remember sitting on my knee by the fire as I read you stories before bed? You loved the stories, especially the fairy tales where the good prince always saved everyone and lived happily ever after."

Grant didn't wait for an answer. "You wanted to learn to read so you could see the stories in the books, too. The pictures weren't good enough. You always wanted to learn. There were never too many questions for you. You were a bright child. Do you remember when you ran into the street and the horse stepped on you? You were so frightened. You cried and cried. All I could do was hold you. You wrapped your arms around my neck so tightly I thought you'd never let go. I wish now you never had."

"I didn't," Bashir said. His throat hurt. He tried to swallow the pain away but it stayed. "You pushed me away."

"I know," Grant said. "I shouldn't have. Do you remember how we would all sing songs together at Christmas? Your eyes lit up like magic the first time you saw the Christmas tree."

"Stop it!" Julian screamed, covering his face. He was so tired, so angry, so confused. It was too much. His legs shook so that he felt he couldn't stand. He remembered. He remembered everything Grant mentioned. He remembered Grant. He remembered his smile, his strong arms lifting him off the ground and throwing him in the air. He remembered the sound of his laughter and how it made him laugh to just to hear it. He remembered playing ball in the garden and long walks by the river. And he remembered how it had felt in the hospital all alone with only the doctors and nurses, strangers. He remembered the pain and the loneliness. He was afraid of the dark, and he couldn't sleep without the cat. He remembered watching the door constantly, waiting for his father to come.

Julian sank to the floor. "How could you do that to me?" he cried. He actually cried. Real tears stung at his eyes. He'd never cried. He'd cried from pain, physical pain, as a child. He had cried for his mother. But he never cried for Grant. "I was only four years old. I needed you. I loved you. You were my father. I waited and waited for you to come. Fathers aren't supposed to do that."

Grant had come around the biobed to where Julian was. "I know," he said. It was so quiet he could barely hear himself.

Bashir heard him. He looked up. "You know now. Why didn't you do something about it then? I would have loved you then. I would have forgiven you."

"You can't now?"

"I don't know how. I don't know if I can, if I even want to." He wiped some of the tears from his face.

Grant tried a different approach. He was kneeling on the floor. "I can give you your family back. That's what you want," he reasoned. "I called them. Elizabeth is coming. She wants to meet you."

"I wanted _you_." Bashir said. He pulled his hand to his chest, folding his fingers in to his palm. His hand thumped over his heart twice. "I have a hole here. I've had it for twenty-five years. It eats away at me when I'm not looking. It hurts. It started when I was in the hospital. It's you. It's where you were supposed to be."

He didn't let Grant answer. "But you weren't. You weren't there. It hurt so much, the burning. My skin hurt, my eyes hurt, everything hurt. I was scared. All the doctors, the lights, the machines. I needed you. I needed you to hold my hand, to tell me everything was going to be alright. But you weren't there. I needed you to hold me when I found out my mother was dead. You were my father! I was only four! Four!"

"I know it was wrong!" Grant shouted back. He stood up. "I know I was wrong! I know! But I can't change it. I can't go back and fill that hole. If I could, I would have changed it all! I would have stopped the fire with my bare hands, or carried you out myself. I lost your mother in that fire. I would rather it had been me. But I threw you away. I have a hole here, too!"--He stabbed at his own chest-- "where you should have been. Even when I was doing it, when I was saying the words, telling them you were dead, even then I could feel it. But I thought it was your mother. I ignored it. I was so angry."

"At me," Julian said, finishing the sentence.

"At God," Grant corrected, and it slowed him down, lowered his voice. "And with Helen. I was angry with her for dying and with God for taking her. But she was gone, and I couldn't get back at Him. So I got back at you." This time Grant sunk to the floor. He sat beside his son, leaning his back against the cold metal of the biobed.

Julian wiped away the tears and stood again, moving away from Grant. He didn't know what to say. It still hurt. But there seemed to be no more words. "Elizabeth is coming?" he asked finally. "When?"

"She didn't know yet," Grant said, standing too. The hope had returned to his eyes.

"And George?"

Grant's face began to turn red, and he looked away. "George wasn't home." They were both so quiet now that it wouldn't have mattered if the room was sound-proof. No one would have heard. Bashir walked toward the door and it opened. It was so quiet that he could hear the Klingons breathing. He stopped in the doorway. "I can't take what you did and make it right," he said finally. "Like you said, you can't change it now. Neither can I." He could hear Grant begin to weep as he walked out the door, trying hard to tuck his feelings back down inside himself. When the door shut, it closed out the sound. Julian kept busy with the Klingons and tried not to notice when Grant left.

* * *

"You wanted to meet me, Chief?" Lieutenant Mir stepped out of the turbolift and walked toward O'Brien, who was standing near an open access crawlway. They were in an empty corridor. Security stood guard at either side to keep people out.

"Yes," O'Brien answered. "Did you bring the coupling?"

"Of course." Mir held out the small gray box. It was very simple, nothing special. Just a coupling. But this coupling meant a lot more. With this coupling, the terrorists had first accessed the computer. Now they controlled the computer. They held the lives of the entire population of Deep Space Nine in their hands. Most of the Bajorans on the station weren't concerned, but Mir didn't like to think that anyone else had the power of life or death over him. He hadn't liked it when the Cardassians were in charge, and he didn't like it now.

"Good," O'Brien said, grinning. In addition to his tool kit, he carried what looked like a flat black box. "Let's go." He knelt down and crawled inside the hatch. He pushed the black box in front of him.

Mir dutifully followed O'Brien into the crawlway. "Why did we come to the docking ring for this, Chief?"

"Because that's where the terrorists were," O'Brien cheerfully answered. "We're going to get to the computer one way or another, Mr. Mir."

"Right," Mir replied, though he didn't really understand. But O'Brien appeared confident, and that made Mir feel a bit more secure.

"Have the transporters been dismantled like Major Kira ordered?" O'Brien asked as they crawled forward.

"Yes, sir," Mir replied. "I checked them myself. It was simple really," he explained. "We just removed some of the isolinear rods from all of the cargo transporters in the docking ring. The only one that's working now is the one in Ops. We can take it down any time."

"Good." O'Brien grinned. "Things are looking up."

"What is that?" Mir inquired, indicating the black box.

"It's a computer, Mr. Mir," O'Brien answered. "A portable computer. We're going to use it to tap into our computer the same way the terrorists did."

* * *

Dax entered the Infirmary carrying a bowl of quite dead gagh. Bashir hoped his face wasn't still red. He didn't want to have to answer her questions. He had been trying still to find the key to counteracting the large doses of stenacine the poisoning victims had been given. Until they found the murderer, there was still a chance of more cases. But he had kept being interrupted by images from his childhood and thoughts of Grant which he tried to push away. "Anything helpful?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied. "Well, maybe." She watched for just a moment, and Bashir recognized the motherly concern he saw in her eyes. "Are you alright, Julian?"

"Just tired," Bashir answered. "I'm beginning to forget what sleep is like. What did you find?"

He was relieved when she seemed to accept his excuse. And he was thankful that she didn't ask him any more questions. "It couldn't have been replicated on this station," she announced. "We don't have the technology to do it. It was an unknown substance until the Gidari introduced it into Tsingras. And we know it's synthetic. So, either the Gidari have been prowling around the station unnoticed--"

"Which doesn't seem likely," Bashir interjected.

"No, it doesn't," Dax agreed. She continued, "Or someone got hold of our records on it and replicated it on the _Ranger_."

"The _Ranger_?" Bashir was surprised. If it was true, it would greatly narrow down the list of suspects. "You're sure it would have to be the _Ranger_?"

"Those drugs are made up of things no one in the Federation has seen until now," Dax tried to clarify. "We could only simulate them here. What the gagh got was the real thing. It matched perfectly with what I was given. The _Ranger _is a new ship with new equipment, a science vessel meant to analyze and work with newly discovered materials. They're the only ones with the technology, Julian. It has to be them or the Gidari."

* * *

O'Brien looked at his work. It was just the way he remembered seeing it when he had first found the coupling after the first night's tampering. Then, it had just seemed like light vandalism, but it was serious now. "Hand me the computer," he told Mir.

Mir was crouched behind him in the crawlway. He slid the computer forward along the floor. It was a small portable computer with a folding top. O'Brien took the cable he'd fastened to the coupling and connected it to the computer. Then he opened the top, exposing the console and screen. It was easy, then, to tap into the central computer.

O'Brien took a few minutes to explore just how much access he'd gained. He had at his disposal communications, Security, medical records, defensive systems. Everything, in general. And not once was he asked for proper clearance. The computer accepted his every command.

"Okay, this is it," he said, more to himself than to Mir. "You stay here on this end and watch my back." As he fed the coordinates into the transporter, he hoped that Mir was someone he could trust. It was hard to tell sometimes with the Bajorans. Mir seemed friendly enough and helpful. But then, so had Neela, his former assistant, even as she covered up the murder of another crew member and tried to assassinate Vedek Bareil during a visit to the station.

"Here goes." O'Brien pressed the control and pushed back away from the computer. The transporter took hold of him, and, when the tingling effect ended, he was looking directly at the central computer. It looked normal enough, for a Cardassian computer. It was bigger than Federation computers, which contained, in general, smaller parts. The isolinear rods the Cardassians used worked on much the same principle as the isolinear chips in Federation technology, but they were bulkier and the equipment to hold them took up more space. O'Brien tapped his comm badge and asked for Mir.

"Right here where you left me, Chief," Mir's voice answered. It echoed in the large room that sparkled with colored lights.

"Good, run a scan," O'Brien ordered. "I want to know if there's anything unusual in this room."

"Yes, Chief."

There was silence as Mir ran the scan. O'Brien walked slowly around the equipment, scanning it with his eyes. Cardassian computers were also not user-friendly, so O'Brien wasn't quite sure where to look. The terrorists had to be controlling the computer by remote, so they had to have something here to receive their commands and transmit the replies. They needed a bug.

"I've found something, Chief," Mir's voice echoed. "You're real close to it. It's small, rectangular, a little bigger than the coupling. It's close to the floor on your left. Do you see it?"

O'Brien looked where Mir had indicated. The computer equipment, like most of the station, was dark. The multitude of little blinking lights only added shadows to the contours and sharp corners of the metal casings. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. He knelt down to get a better look. It was low, close to the floor, as Mir had said.

"Chief?" Mir sounded worried.

"I'm looking," O'Brien answered. "I've got it." Just then he felt the familiar tingling of the transporter, and he couldn't move. This time when the effect faded, he was kneeling in a detention cell in Security. Stirad, or rather, Theel, was watching him from the bed along one wall. He looked amused.

"Someone is too smart for you, Chief," he said.

"And just who might that someone be?" O'Brien didn't expect an answer, and Theel didn't give one.

"Chief?" Mir's voice interrupted. "I've lost you. Can you hear me?"

"Yes, I can hear you," O'Brien replied. His good mood had left him. He was annoyed. "I'm in Security." He really hoped Mir wasn't the one who had put him there.

* * *

Inara Taleyn knew exactly where he was. At first she had been impressed that O'Brien had thought of using the coupling. But she had also been amused. He didn't see that it had been too easy. It hadn't been quite that simple when she had first gained access. No requests for security clearance? She had given him the clearance before he was even asked. She had let him in.

But she thought he would try to track her down from there. She hadn't thought he would transport himself to the central computer. So she had transported him before he'd gotten too close. Too close? He'd almost found it. But now she had him. He couldn't leave. The detention cell was locked.

Inara pressed a few controls ordering the computer to begin the liquidation program. Now it was only a matter of time. Inara flipped off the computer and went to prepare her dinner.

* * *

O'Brien thought about what had happened to Targo Hern when the door to his cell wouldn't open. He stopped being annoyed and began to be seriously worried. Odo charged into the room, and O'Brien felt a little better.

"Computer," Odo said, "open cell number two."

Then O'Brien felt the mist. The air around him had become moist and he could feel the tiny little droplets landing on his face and hands. Theel, in the same cell, reacted strangely. He laid down on the bed and opened his shirt. "It won't open," he said, indicating the door. He didn't seem to mind.

"Unable to comply," the computer answered.

"Override," Odo commanded sharply.

"Unable to comply," the computer repeated.

"Transport!" O'Brien said. He was starting to feel light-headed.

Odo nodded. "Ops, transport Chief O'Brien directly to the Infirmary."

"The transporter isn't working," someone answered.

"I think I can get it from here," a man's voice interrupted on the comm line. It was Mir. "Two to transport."

Theel sat up quickly. "No!" he protested. But it was too late. The transporter was already taking hold, cutting off his voice.

* * *

Dr. Bashir turned to see O'Brien materializing with his hands outstretched. Behind him a Bajoran man fell over backwards and then scrambled to his feet. He was running towards a cabinet full of surgical instruments. Bashir remembered the man. He was one of the terrorists. His name was Theel. He had set the bomb in order to kill himself. He must have had the same idea in mind now.

Leaving O'Brien to Dax and the nurse, Bashir ran to intercept him. But Theel reached the cabinet first and pulled out a laser scalpel which he placed to his neck. Bashir slammed into him before he could activate it, knocking him hard into the cabinet. His own hand clasped around Theel's.

Theel activated the scalpel and struggled to move it closer to his neck again. He tried to push Bashir away with his other hand. "Sedative," Bashir called. The scalpel slipped upward cutting a swath in Theel's cheek. He screamed in pain and struggled harder. Blood seeped out from the incision. But the nurse's hand appeared from behind, holding a hypospray. The struggling lessened, and within seconds, Theel was asleep and the scalpel fell to the floor.

Bashir and the nurse lifted Theel to a biobed. "Are you alright, Chief?" the doctor asked, glancing back to where O'Brien and Dax were sitting.

O'Brien didn't answer. He looked very pale. Bashir looked back at Theel, noticing the blood that ran from his cheek. It was a dark, bluish purple, not red. "No oxygen," he said to himself. The blood had been exposed to the air and still was not red. The display above the biobed confirmed his diagnosis. Traces of DMSO in the bloodstream and on the skin, and hematoglobulininhibitase.

"Twenty cc's tri-heme," the doctor order, "for both of them. Quickly!"

Dax and the nurse hurried to do as he said. The nurse handed him a hypospray, and he administered it to Theel. Dax did the same for O'Brien. The change was almost instant. The tri-heme counteracted the inhibitase, and oxygen began to reach the blood.

"It was only for a few minutes," O'Brien commented behind him.

"Well, a few minutes is all it needed," Bashir replied as he placed the dermal regerator to Theel's face. "It almost killed you, Chief. I want you to stay here and get some rest."

"How long, Julian?" the Chief protested. "I've got work to do."

Bashir checked the biobed before he answered. Oxygen levels in the blood were returning to normal. They would be fine, though Theel probably wouldn't be too happy about that. "An hour or two. It's time for dinner anyway. Why don't you call Keiko and you can eat here."

"I'd rather not. She'd just get worried. And since I'm going to be fine . . . ."

O'Brien hadn't sounded too sure. "Of course, you'll be fine," Bashir assured him. "I told you so, didn't I? Just take an hour or two off." And now that he'd mentioned it, he wanted to do the same. He needed to get away. He needed out of the Infirmary. He'd been there all day, it seemed, and all night. "Let's get the other one back to the cubicle," he said to the nurse, "and I want Security here to watch him."

Dax waited as they moved the unconscious Theel to the isolation cubicle and locked the door. "You hungry?" she asked when Bashir dropped into a chair beside her.

"Is that an invitation?"

Dax nodded. Bashir thought for a moment. After his latest exchange with Grant, he wasn't all that hungry, but he needed the break. He looked to the only other patients. The Klingons were still comatose, but also still improving. Perhaps he could spare the time.

* * *

"How was school today?" Commander Sisko was home again, thankful for a break from the office. He was programming the replicator for their dinner. Jake was setting the table. He set three places, since Dr. Grant was coming. He frowned when Sisko asked about school. "Jake?"

"It was alright," he said, whining just a little. "But it was boring. And Nog wasn't there. His father said it wasn't safe." He rolled his eyes with the last sentence. "It's no more dangerous than being at his uncle's bar all day." He thumped the knives and forks down beside the plates.

Sisko grinned. Jake was so much like his father. And where he wasn't he was like his mother, Jennifer. Sisko enjoyed being home for dinner with his son, and he tried to make sure he took the time every night. It was an important time for them to be together, to talk. They did not often have the time otherwise. There was always something going on on the station to pull the commander away. Tonight he only had two hours, which is why he hadn't cooked the dinner himself. The situation on the station was too tense to be away much longer.

Sisko stopped smiling. "Were you on the Promenade with Nog today?"

The door signaled just then, telling them that their guest had arrived. "I'll get it," Jake chimed all too eagerly. Sisko suspected he was trying to get out of answering the question. But he said nothing and joined his son at the door.

The door slid open, and Dr. Grant stood outside smiling warmly. "Good evening. I hope I'm not late." He shook hands with Sisko and then took Jake's hand. "You must be Jake," he said.

Jake nodded. Sisko invited Grant inside. "Please, come in, Alex. Dinner is just about ready."

"Thank you, Benjamin." But Grant hesitated for a moment. He glanced nervously at the door frame and then stepped inside.

Commander Sisko offered him a seat at the table, which Grant took graciously. But Sisko had noticed his behavior at the door. "How are you feeling, Alex?" he asked.

"Fine, fine," Grant waved his concern away. "I was just overtired, I believe."

It was a strange answer. Sisko had been thinking about his injuries suffered during the bombing of the Teldarian ship. What had they had to do with being overtired? Sisko decided to ignore it for now. But he watched Grant more closely.

"Jake," Grant said, making conversation after they'd all sat down, "you look quite the young man. How old are you?"

Sisko was relieved when Jake answered politely. "Fourteen, sir." He tried to go back to eating his food, to let his father talk with the guest.

"Fourteen?" Grant nodded approvingly. "And don't call me sir." He adopted a conspiratorial tone. "Tell me, Jake, are there any pretty girls on this station?"

Jake's face lit up and then began to blush. "Well, there are a few." His eyes dropped to his plate, and he wouldn't raise his head. He pushed his food around on the plate with his fork. "They're all a little older than me though."

"Well, that won't matter for long, I'm sure," Grant reassured him. "The food is wonderful, Benjamin." He winked. "Almost as good as Helen's back home."

Sisko remembered Grant saying that his wife had died in a fire. He was about to say something, but Jake jumped in.

"Where do you live back on Earth, Dr. Grant?" he asked.

Grant leaned back comfortably in his chair and smiled warmly. He had barely eaten more than three bites of his food. "Call me Alex," he said. "I live in Stratford-Upon-Avon. That's where William Shakespeare lived. My wife is an historian. We have a house very much like his with a big garden for the children."

Sisko was worried now. "Alex, are you sure you're alright?" He thought of calling Dr. Bashir.

Grant appeared confused. "I'm fine," he insisted. "Why do you keep asking me that?"

Sisko took a deep breath. Something wasn't right. Grant was not fine. Sisko smiled widely. "How old are your children now, Alex?" he asked, hoping for a reasonable answer.

Grant seemed to immediately forget the confusion over Sisko's previous question. In fact, he beamed. "George is six. Julian is four, and Elizabeth is 11 months. She looks just like her mother."

Something was wrong. "You told me three days ago that your house in Stratford burned and that your wife was dead twenty-five years. Alex," Sisko stood, "you are not fine. I think you should come with me down to the Infirmary."

Grant looked offended and stood up as well. "I don't need an Infirmary. There's nothing wrong with me. Perhaps you should go to the Infirmary. You're being ridiculous. My wife is fine. Twenty-five years? She's only twenty-nine."

Sisko glanced at his son. Jake understood the look and left the table. But Sisko did not hear the door close. "Alex," Sisko continued, keeping his voice low and even. He wanted Grant to remain calm. "It's 2371. You are on space station Deep Space Nine."

"I know exactly when it is." Grant was becoming angry. He stepped away from the table and stomped to the center of the room. "It's my son's birthday. And, quite frankly, I should be home to celebrate it." He headed toward the door.

Sisko didn't want him to get away. He touched his comm badge and quickly called for Bashir. Then he called out to Grant. "It's George's birthday, is it?"

Grant turned around. "Of course not. It hardly feels like December weather, now does it, Benjamin? It's Julian's birthday."

"Who's Julian?" he asked. _Where's Bashir? _he thought. Grant did not look well now at all. He had grown pale again, and his hands shook at his side.

"He's my son. You know that, Benjamin."

"Computer," Sisko said, "tell me the names and ages of Dr. Alexander Grant's children, specifically Dr. Alexander Patrick Grant of England, Earth."

Grant waited impatiently, rolling his eyes. He crossed his arms over his chest.

"Dr. Grant has two children," the computer recited. "George, age thirty-one, and Elizabeth, age twenty-six."

"That's ridiculous!" Grant shouted. "I have three children. Who do you think you are?" He pointed harshly at Sisko. "I ought to know how many children I have. I was there when they were born. What is this place?" He looked around himself wildly as if he no longer trusted his surroundings. "What do you want with me?"

"I want to help you, Alex," Sisko said, stepping slowly closer. "You're not well."

"I'm a doctor. I ought to know if I'm well or not." He backed toward the door, but his knees buckled before he could get there. He fell to the floor. "What have you done to me?" he cried. "You've poisoned me, haven't you? Help!! Someone, help!!"

Just then the door opened and Bashir stepped in.

"Help me!" Grant cried out, crawling toward him on the floor.

"I will," Bashir said, trying to be reassuring. "Everything's fine now."

"He's poisoned me," Grant accused, "just like the captain." He held on to Bashir's leg.

"There's nothing to worry about," Bashir told him. Grant seemed to trust this and lay quietly on the floor. Bashir pulled out his tricorder and looked to the commander. "What happened?"

"I'm not sure. We were having dinner, and he mentioned his house in Stratford and his wife and children. He spoke about them like they were still children. Then he fell to the floor."

Bashir was kneeling on the floor beside Grant, studying his tricorder. Sisko thought he looked a little pale himself. He looked up again. His face was grim, but also confused. "Stenacine."

Maybe he had been poisoned. "The Gidari drugs?"

Bashir shook his head. "Only stenacine."

* * *

"It can still work," O'Brien asserted. "We just have to go about it a little differently."

"What do you mean, Chief?" Kira wasn't so certain after O'Brien's last attempt to try to find the terrorists. But she was willing to listen to any ideas. They had nothing else to go by.

Theel just wouldn't talk. He sat glumly in Security again, shamed by his second failure at committing suicide. She had thought about what he had said before though, about working in threes. It was true for most resistance groups. Fin, Targo, and Theel would make three. But there seemed still to be at least one more out there, one who had transported O'Brien into detention and started filtering the cell with the DMSO mist.

O'Brien, for his part, had hardly slowed down after his experience. He'd obeyed Bashir by staying in the Infirmary for an hour and a half, but then he'd returned to the chase. Now he looked absolutely inspired. He had asked Kira and Lieutenant Mir to meet him in his quarters. He didn't think anyone could be listening there. "This time," he said, "we let them kill Mr. Theel."

Kira wasn't sure she heard right. "We let them kill him?"

"Yes," he confirmed.

Mir was uncertain. "Why do we do that, Chief?"

"I'm glad you asked," O'Brien grinned. "Because when they do, we'll be watching and be there to catch them." He went on to explain. "We can use our friend Theel for bait. They want to kill Theel so that he can't talk. Just like Targo. So we let them have him. We draw attention to Theel and let them try to kill him with the inhibitase. Then we interrupt it, using the coupling. They think it's a computer error and try again."

"And finish off Theel," Kira finished for him. "How does that help us?"

"It doesn't. We track where the command comes from and beam you directly there to catch them. Meanwhile, we stop the filtration."

"Me?" Kira asked.

"You and Security."

Kira thought that perhaps it might work. But there were still too many back doors for the terrorists to get away. "What if they see us coming? They could still pull everything down or transport away."

O'Brien was ready for that question. "I've thought it all out," he said. "I'll be in with the central computer. I can isolate the important functions such as life support and the fusion reactors. But then we can take the whole computer down."

"That would make things difficult," she said skeptically.

"No more than usual," Mir countered.

"If they've already taken the computer down, we wouldn't have it anyway." O'Brien pointed out. "But every time we've lost it, they've still had access to everything. This time they wouldn't have that advantage."

Mir smiled. He liked the idea. "I think we can isolate communications as well from in there. Then we can still communicate with each other if the computer goes down."

Kira thought about all the ways it could go wrong. If the terrorists were just a little faster than anyone thought, they could beam away to another part of the station. Without sensors, she'd be just as incapable of finding them as before. And if the terrorists did manage to get away, they could hide nearly anywhere on the station. It would take the crew hours to search every area by tricorder. It was risky. But then, it might just work out perfectly. So far, it was the best they had, and they'd wasted too much time already. "It's worth a try. Let's do it, Chief. But we should warn the commander."

O'Brien stood up quickly. "Right, I'll talk to Commander Sisko. Mir, you get things set up with the coupling. You've got to track their signal and automatically transport to that location. We'll need split-second timing."

Mir nodded and got up to leave.

Kira stood too. "I'll get Security ready."

* * *

"Why do you have me in restraints?" Dr. Grant asked.

Grant was not dying. He had enough stenacine in his system to kill both of the Klingons that were still lying comatose in the Infirmary. Thankfully, he was being calm now. But Dr. Bashir just didn't trust him. Grant wasn't dying when other people were. He had a sinking feeling that now he knew who the murderer was. "Why are you taking stenacine?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." Grant's eyes were sincere.

"That's probably because you've been taking stenacine," Bashir returned. "You've been taking stenacine for approximately the past five years. Why?"

"I am a doctor. I helped to invent stenacine," Grant lectured. "I ought to know if I've been using it. There must be something wrong with your computer or your diagnosis. Stenacine is an anesthetic. If I'd been using it, I wouldn't be conscious now."

"Maybe you're not." Bashir pulled a chair over and sat beside the biobed that Grant was lying on. "What's your name?"

Grant rolled his eyes and stared at the ceiling, but he went along with the questioning. "Dr. Alexander Patrick Grant."

"What's my name?"

Grant was silent. His face fell. It had been neutral before but it actually slipped down into a sorrowful frown. "You're my son, Julian."

Bashir hadn't wanted that answer. He looked around to see if the nurse had heard. She was attending a Klingon at the other side of the room. "I asked you my name."

"Dr. Julian Grant."

"Try again."

"Bashir."

That didn't prove much. "What year is it?"

"Twenty-three. . . ." Grant's forehead creased as he thought. "Twenty-three . . . I don't know."

"It's 2371. Where are you now?"

Grant sighed. It was apparently an easy question. "In a hospital."

Bashir sighed, too. He was almost right. "In a matter of speaking, I suppose. But where?"

"I don't understand the question."

"What planet, what part of the galaxy, anything?"

"Earth."

Bashir shook his head and stood up again. "You don't know where you are or when. You're not dead or unconscious because you've built up a tolerance. You've been taking stenacine regularly for the last five years, haven't you? And lately they've been very large doses, large enough to kill anyone else." _And it's quite a coincidence that people have been dying from it_, he thought. "Were you trying to kill yourself?" He turned his back on Grant, who said nothing. "Not on my station. Nurse," he said, "let's transfer him to the other room."

It was known that a small percentage of people suffered side effects from stenacine, including black-outs and semi-conscious states in which they appeared to be awake and functional. But it wasn't known what would happen after prolonged use, especially in the case of such side effects. No one had ever taken stenacine for more than a year and not at the dosages Grant was using.

Grant was in a semi-conscious state. It was possible that he had been in such a state on previous occasions and committed the murders on the station, with or without his knowledge. But there was still one problem with that theory.

"Keep him monitored," Bashir told the nurse when they stepped back outside the cubicle they placed Grant in. The restraints had been released. "He should be okay in there. I've got to talk to the commander."

Nurse Reyna was still standing beside the cubicle, and she watched Grant through the glass. "Do you think he's the murderer?" she asked.

Bashir was surprised. He hadn't said anything to her about his suspicions. "It's possible," he answered. "But if he is, I don't think he realizes it. I've got to go to the _Ranger _to find out for sure. Call Security and have them send someone to guard him in the meantime."

Reyna nodded and called Security as Bashir left the Infirmary. He located Commander Sisko with the computer's help and headed for the turbolift. Sisko was still in his quarters. Bashir hoped he was finished with dinner. It was crowded in the corridors of the habitat ring as many people were trying to make it home early before the computer dropped for the evening. They were mostly people with families, Bashir noted, with parents holding their children's hands as they walked. The single people would probably chance the Promenade for at least a few more hours.

When Bashir rang, he was surprised to see Chief O'Brien on the other side of the door. "Just on my way out," he said. But he paused for a moment by the door. He spoke softly, so that those in the corridor could not hear. "The computer's going down early tonight, Julian. Make sure you're in."

But Jake Sisko heard from inside the quarters. "Julian," he said quietly as if it was a revelation for him.

O'Brien hadn't heard that and was on his way down the corridor. But Bashir had jumped a little inside and looked quickly at Jake. Sisko ordered him out of the room. "Jake, go to your room, please."

Jake protested, "But I'm not finished eating. It'll get cold."

"Isn't it already?" Sisko asked. "Take it with you and shut the door this time."

Jake didn't say anything else but glumly got up from the table. Sisko waited until he heard the hiss of the door closing. Bashir stood stiffly, barely breathing. Had Grant said something about him during his fit at dinner? It appeared that way. Jake, who had caught at least some of Bashir's first exchange with Grant, seemed to have come to some new understanding of who the doctor was. Sisko, too, appeared to have made the same connection.

But Sisko didn't mention it. "What can I do for you, Doctor?" he said and offered Bashir a seat.

Bashir took the chair offered and began, "I believe Dr. Grant has been taking stenacine for the last five years. He's addicted. It's possible to suffer side-effects from stenacine, though it's rare. Those side effects include black-outs or semi-consciousness. Grant's in a semi-conscious state now. He's awake but he doesn't know where he is or the year." He took a deep breath before he finished. He knew, and resented it, that Sisko and Grant had become friends. "In such a semi-conscious state, one might act, with or without knowing it, in a hostile manner. There have been several cases of violent crime from someone taking stenacine unsupervised."

Sisko's face was unreadable. "You think Grant killed all those people." It wasn't a question.

Bashir nodded. "But I need to go to the _Ranger _to make sure. I need to see his medical records."

"You can't have them transmitted here?"

"Not if I'm wrong," Bashir replied. "The _Ranger_'s doctors are also suspects. If I'm wrong about Grant, one of them could change the records to support my theory. I need to be sure."

Sisko leaned back and brought his hands together in front of his chin. He spent about thirty seconds just watching the doctor. And Bashir became more uncomfortable with each second. Finally Sisko spoke. "I don't know what happened between you and Dr. Grant. So I'll only ask this once. Are you certain that you're not letting your personal feelings toward him cloud your judgment?"

So there it was. Sisko had made the connection. Bashir tried to remain calm, to not get nervous. "I don't let my feelings get in the way of doing my duty. I wouldn't have come to you otherwise. Besides, I don't think he's doing it consciously. I don't think he could, no matter what I think of him."

Sisko watched him for a few moments more, and Bashir worried that he would ask him to explain his personal feelings about Grant. That was something he just didn't want to do, not to Sisko, not to Dax, not even to himself. Finally Sisko moved. He touched his comm badge. "Ops, put me through to the _Ranger_'s Head of Security." He moved to his communications viewscreen and addressed Bashir before the connection went through. "Report back as soon as you're off the ship."

* * *

"Where's Kira?" O'Brien asked when he saw Odo enter the corridor.

"Change of plans," Odo answered. O'Brien couldn't tell if he was angry or not. "I'm going with you. Major Kira will stay in Security with Theel. Is there a problem?"

"No," O'Brien hadn't meant to leave him out of the plans. It just happened that way. Odo had been busy with the murder investigations as well. "Everyone ready?" he asked. "Mir?"

"All set, Chief." Mir was waiting in the crawlway with the computer and terrorists' coupling.

"Okay, let's go," O'Brien gave the order. He felt the transporter grab hold of him, and he was soon standing again in front of the central computer. He looked around, noting where the transmitter/receiver was installed. He meant to stay clear of that. He didn't want to be transported back to Security again. Working quickly, he isolated the communications and life support systems from the rest of the central computer. The systems that shielded the fusion reactors were easier. They were already well protected from power failure and attack.

After fifteen minutes of rerouting connections and separating certain functions of the computer, O'Brien had everything set up. With one control he could shut down the entire computer. Even the terrorists' device wouldn't be able to bring it up again. He touched his comm badge and signalled for Kira to begin the interrogation.

Kira had other plans in mind. She'd begun to worry that perhaps the terrorists might catch on to their plans and decide to leave Theel alone. She had to make sure. So she was prepared with something a little different. She had disconnected the security sensors in the detention cells. If the terrorists were paying attention, all they'd get was voices.

Kira ordered the computer to begin recording the interrogation of detainee Theel Vind in Detention Cell Three. It didn't matter that Theel was actually in Detention Cell Four. He wasn't going to be speaking anyway. She set her tricorder to playback the conversation she'd already recorded, one where Theel's voice was much more willing to divulge useful information than the real, sedated prisoner in cell number four.

A security officer, wearing an environment suit and holding a tricorder as well, motioned to her from inside cell three that the atmosphere had changed. His thumbs-up signaled that it had begun. Kira tapped her comm badge twice, opening and closing the comm line.

* * *

Mir, hunched over in the access crawlway, got the message. Indeed, he had seen it on his screen. The signal to record the interrogation had triggered an automatic reaction. The computer immediately began to change the atmosphere in the cell where the prisoner supposedly was. Hematoglobulininhibitase in a solution of dimethyl sulfoxide began to pour in in an ultrafine mist, barely noticable, but deadly if action wasn't taken quickly.

Then he had an idea. It wasn't what O'Brien had in mind, but it just might be easier. Before he cancelled the mist, he asked the computer to show him the program that controlled it. Using a "Search" command, Mir let the computer search the text for Theel's name. He found it toward the bottom. It was an amendment to the original program. The program seemed to be specific. It was set up to kill Theel or his alias, not just any prisoner who might be interrogated. There were no other names on the screen.

Mir checked his time. Two minutes. The signal came again from Major Kira. _Not yet_, he thought. "Give me a minute," he said out loud, knowing that no one had really heard him. Searching backward, he found Targo's name along with Fin Liian's. There was only one other name. But it was encoded. He couldn't read it. It would take time for the computer to decode it, and he didn't have that much time. But he had enough information. If the plan worked, Odo would find out who the encoded name belonged to. Mir exited the text and immediately interrupted the progress of the program. Then he waited.

* * *

Commander Merot and Commander Lairton were more than willing to allow Dr. Bashir uninterrupted access into the _Ranger_'s medical computer. They were just as interested in finding Captain Gerin's killer as Bashir was. Dr. Pynar had been on duty in sickbay. Both she and the nurse on duty were called to the captain's ready room under a pretext drummed up by Commander Lairton, and Merot escorted Bashir to sickbay. He stood guard just outside the door, making sure that no one else entered.

Lairton, as acting captain, had given Bashir full access to the computer. Dr. Bashir felt a twinge of guilt as he entered the empty sickbay. Was he letting his personal feelings get in the way? He hated Grant for what he'd done to him, but did he hate him so much that he wanted to find him guilty of the murders as a form of revenge? Was it blinding him to other evidence that might prove him innocent? Bashir pushed those questions away. He would still need to see the medical records to find out.

The first thing he found didn't help Grant's cause. Only one person had replicated stenacine on this vessel: Grant. And he'd replicated rather large amounts of it. Bashir was surprised that the information didn't make him feel better. He then called up Grant's medical records. Strangely, Grant had not had a routine medical exam for more than five years. That too supported Bashir's theory. If Grant was abusing a drug, an exam would have shown it. He would have tried to avoid them. He hadn't even had his exam after being assigned to the _Ranger_. He was scheduled for the next week. Bashir wondered how he would have managed to cover up his addiction to stenacine.

That, of course, brought into question Grant's treatment after his collapse at dinner. Maylon had admitted the unconscious Dr. Grant to sickbay at 2157. He had taken blood and tissue samples. He had noted the use of somnetic inducers to induce sleep. The patient stated that he'd had trouble sleeping and had used the inducers the night before. He had said that he'd felt a little dizzy all day long. Maylon conducted some neural tests and concluded that there was no cause for further alarm. He cautioned Grant against using the inducers and prescribed rest. He released Grant and a nurse escorted him back to his quarters.

"That's strange," Bashir said to himself. Grant had not seemed dizzy during the day. And there was no mention of stenacine. Stenacine would have easily showed up in a scan, especially the neural tests Maylon had used. Bashir began to think again about what Merot had said in the Infirmary. A murderer would not be above falsifying medical records. He remembered that Maylon had recorded giving Gerin condrofen and yet there was no trace of condrofen in the captain's system.

Bashir did a quick inventory of the condrofen used and available on the ship. Three cubic centimeters of condrofen were missing from the sum of the original stock on hand when the Ranger left space dock. A check on the records showed that 4.5 cc's had been administered. Three had been given by Dr. Pynar to a Bolian crewman, and one point five had been given to Gerin by Dr. Maylon.

Maylon had also been at the Klingon restaurant and on the Promenade early in the morning. Bashir felt a slight shudder and covered his mouth in surprise over the realization. Maylon had been his roommate. He'd lived with him for three years. He'd lived in the same room with a murderer for three years. Bashir recorded the pertinent information on his tricorder to take back to the station. It wasn't good enough though. Maylon might argue that someone had doctored the records to set him up. He needed more evidence.

He had told Dax that the Gidari drugs could not be replicated exactly on the station. But the _Ranger _had more sophisticated, state-of-the-art equipment. If Maylon was the murderer, he'd have had to replicate them here, in sickbay or one of the science labs. Bashir checked the sickbay's replicator records. He pulled up a display of every chemical replicated there. But the record was splotchy and corrupted. Bashir was unable to tell if this was the result of tampering or the computer virus the terrorists had introduced on the first night of their attacks.

"Julian! What a surprise to find you here."

Bashir jumped at the familiar voice. Maylon. Where was Merot? How did he get in? The door still stood open, since Maylon was leaning against the door frame. Bashir couldn't see the Security Chief from where he was sitting in Pynar's office.

He smiled what he hoped was a friendly smile and clicked off the computer. "Maylon! Hello. You surprised me. It was so quiet here. I, uh, had some questions about Dr. Grant. No one was here, so Commander Merot was kind enough to let me in." He quickly set his tricorder to store the information he'd recorded on a computer chip, which he removed and tucked in his boot before standing up.

"What about Grant?" Maylon asked, stepping into the room.

Bashir met him half way. He didn't want to let on that he knew. Maylon was wearing a blue jacket over his uniform. Bashir didn't want to find out what was in the pockets of that jacket. "He was feeling a little dizzy, and I wanted to check my findings with yours from his collapse after dinner the other day. You didn't see Commander Merot in the corridor, did you?"

"No," Maylon frowned. "Why didn't you just call? I could have transmitted the records to you."

"Our communicators aren't working properly, I'm afraid. The Bajorans have been giving us trouble lately." Bashir smiled. He was trying to remain absolutely calm. He was worried now about Merot. But he was also worried about himself.

Maylon's face was neutral. Bashir couldn't tell if he was suspicious or not. He didn't smile. "Did you find what you were looking for?" he asked coldly. His nearly-black eyes never moved from Bashir's face.

"Yes," Bashir said, "apparently you noted the same symptoms in your examination. I can't find any reason for it though. I should really get back to the station and run some more tests." He walked past Maylon toward the door.

"I'll walk you out," Maylon said.

"No!" Bashir replied, then added, to soften it a bit, "there's really no reason to. You should stay here. There should always be someone on duty in sickbay."

"I'm not on duty," Maylon said. "Pynar is. She should be here. Besides, we'll probably be leaving soon, and I may never see you again." He paused for a moment. His words were friendly, but his eyes didn't change.

"Really, Maylon," Bashir protested casually. "You won't be leaving tomorrow. We could have lunch."

"It's the _least _I could do." Maylon's eyebrows raised on the word "least". He stepped past Bashir and the door opened. Maylon held out his hand in a gesture that showed he meant for Bashir to exit first.

Bashir stepped out and glanced around. There was no sign of Merot. The corridor was deserted. He noticed he was gripping the tricorder quite strongly and put it back into the little pouch at his waist. He rubbed his palms on his sleeves and started down the corridor. He needed to be where there were people. "Maybe we could go for a drink, Maylon," he suggested. "I haven't seen the officer's lounge here on the ship yet."

Maylon was walking beside him. "Don't you have patients, Julian?" he asked in return. "You should get back to them, don't you think?"

Bashir didn't answer but stepped into the turbolift. _So much for Plan A_, he thought. _Now I need a Plan B. _Many people passed them on the new deck, all unaware of Maylon's true nature, and therefore completely unconcerned with their presence. Neither said anything as they walked. Finally, he could see the airlock. "Well, Maylon, thank you for walking me out," he said, still smiling. "Lunch, tomorrow?"

"Don't be silly," Maylon said, stepping through the first airlock door. "I'll walk you to the Promenade. I haven't had dinner yet. And I'd really like to see if I can find that woman again."

Bashir took a breath and stepped into the airlock as well. "Woman?" he asked, just trying to make conversation.

"The Bajoran one I told you about," Maylon answered. "You remember, don't you, Julian?" They stepped through the station side of the airlock.

"Good evening, Doctors," the ship's security guard said.

"Good evening," Bashir replied. He wanted to stop, to stay there with the security officers, but Maylon's hand was on his shoulders. He smiled now, too. Not to Bashir, but to the guards.

"Have you seen Doctor Pynar this evening?" he asked.

"No, sir."

"Thank you." Maylon walked on and Bashir was forced to walk with him. Bashir thought something would happen when they were in the turbolift together. But Maylon gave the command for the Promenade and stood stiffly in front of the door as it began to move. When they had nearly reached the bottom of the pylon, Maylon moved his hand toward the control panel. But just then the lights went out and the turbolift came to a sudden stop. Both he and Bashir were thrown into the air and then dropped heavily onto the floor.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Thirteen**

Inara Taleyn picked up her computer, and, setting it on her lap, she turned it on. A message flashed across her screen, telling her that Theel was about to be interrogated. The filtration process had begun. He wasn't dead. Inara watched carefully to see if someone would transport him out of the cell as they had done earlier with O'Brien. No one did. She counted the minutes while she listened to the interrogation. Strangely, there was no picture from the security sensors. But she didn't mind too much, she could use the screen then for other operations.

Inara tried to think what her next move would be. There wasn't much she could do, not alone. There were two bombs left. The rest had been destroyed with Theel's quarters. But what to do with them? Two would not do much damage, except to the smaller ships. She thought perhaps though that the Klingons deserved them, no matter how much damage they did or didn't do. The Klingons had been all too willing to help the Federation officers of the station when their computer was down. Their very nature deserved it. They were no different from the Cardassians. They just happened to be allies with the Federation so their distastefulness and aggression were tolerated.

Another message flashed across her screen, interrupting her thoughts. "Filtration interrupted."

"What?" she said aloud. "Why?"

"Unknown," replied the computer.

Inara looked at the counter. Three minutes. That wasn't enough time. There wasn't enough inhibitase in the cell to kill Theel yet, even with the dimethyl sulfoxide mist. He didn't even seem to be affected at all. He was talking too much. Inara's attention was drawn to the conversation in Security.

"If I tell you what I know, what will happen to me?" Theel asked.

"Cooperation looks much better on your record than being difficult," Kira told him, promising nothing.

"What is he doing?" Inara asked. He was a fool. She didn't know where the Elders had found him. He was weak.

"Unknown," the computer droned.

"I was not talking to you," Inara snapped.

In Security, Theel was trying to warn Kira, telling her about the poison. "Beam me out," he pleaded, "like you did before, with Chief O'Brien. Beam me out and I'll tell you everything."

"I can't," Kira answered. "The transporter's locked up. We're working on it. Talk now, maybe we'll work harder."

Inara tried the computer again. "Computer, continue filtration process."

"Working."

It was too easy. It was a mistake. It had to be. Why had the process interrupted in the first place? It must be a. . . . She checked the transporter record, just to be sure. It was engaged! She checked the sensors. It wasn't Theel; he was still in Security. It was a trap. A shimmering light began to appear in the room beside her. She gasped. _Don't panic_, she told herself. She could catch him during transport. She quickly entered her code, dropping the computer with the exception of her own door.

She looked toward the transporter effect. Too late. It was still there. She could see the form coming together. The shapeshifter. She grabbed hold of the computer and her bag and dashed past him toward the door. She cursed her boots which rang out loudly in the corridor. It was dark, but she knew the way. She'd rehearsed it. She could hear Odo behind her. He was calling in her ID to Security. How was that possible? She'd taken down the computer.

Three, two, one, turn. Inara cut a right angle to the left and ran down the next corridor. She heard Odo's boots behind her in the first corridor. They stopped suddenly. Inara stopped as well. He couldn't see anymore than she could. If she made no sound, he wouldn't catch her.

She opened the computer again and the screen glowed blue when she turned it on. She covered the light with her bag and blocked it with her body. She tried to pull up the transporter controls. Nothing. The screen remained blank. She tried the sensors. Nothing. It was all gone. She'd lost control. O'Brien was better than she'd thought. She turned off the computer and was bathed in darkness again. With her hands she searched in her bag for the flashlight. It wasn't there either. _The Prophets are not with me today_, she thought, angrily. She was as helpless as the station's crew.

She heard another footstep at the junction of the corridors. It waited for another sound. He'd find her if he entered the corridor. He could stretch out his arms or form himself into a net to trap her. She had to run for it. The computer was useless. She'd leave it behind. In one movement, she gathered up her bag, rose from the floor, and took the first step in her sprint to the next corridor junction. The one to the docking ring, the Klingon ship, and, perhaps, her destiny.

* * *

In the total darkness, Dr. Bashir's nervousness grew to something closer to fear. He was as good as blind. The only comfort was that Maylon was, too. Bashir sat on the floor, flattened his back against the turbolift wall, and listened, trying to be as quiet as possible. He heard Maylon shuffling to get to his feet. Then he heard him struggling with the door.

"Help me with the door, Julian," he said. "I think were close to level with the docking ring. We can walk from here."

Bashir was uncertain. He couldn't trust Maylon. That _was _certain. But if Maylon suspected that he knew the truth, he could kill him more easily here inside the turbolift. Then he could always get the door open by himself or escape through the hatch in the ceiling.

"Are you alright, Julian?" Maylon actually sounded worried. "Where are you?"

Bashir thought that maybe, if he could get out of the turbolift without getting killed or poisoned, his chances were better outside. He could find an access crawlway and lose Maylon in the dark. He stood, quietly. His left ankle hurt when he put pressure on it. But he had no choice.

A light flashed brightly in his eyes. "There you are. Are you okay, Julian?"

"I'm fine," Bashir replied, raising a hand to block the brightness. He couldn't see Maylon past the beam of light. "It just knocked the wind out of me." He didn't tell him about his ankle. He didn't want to share any weakness with him. Maylon might use it to his advantage.

"Good thing I brought a palm beacon, huh?" Maylon smiled. Bashir couldn't see it, but he could hear it in his voice. "Always be prepared, Julian. You never know what's going to happen. Now help me with the door."

Maybe Maylon _didn't _suspect yet. "Get the light out of my face first," Bashir said.

"I'll have to put it out," Maylon warned. "We'll need both hands, I think. The Cardies seem to make their stations out of sturdy material." The light moved toward Maylon's body and winked out.

Bashir stepped forward toward the door, trying to ignore the darkness and what it did to his sense of balance. He only hoped both of Maylon's hands were truly on the door frame. Julian braced his foot against the wall, sending pain shooting through his leg, and pushed his fingertips as far into the crack between the two doors as they would go. "I'm ready."

"On the count of three," Maylon said. It was something they'd learned in their years living together. They could move heavier objects, like furniture or crates of medical equipment, if all their effort was focussed at the same moment, on the count of three.

They counted together, "One, two, three!" The doors slid apart about half a foot. Bashir wrapped his fingers more tightly around the edge of the right-hand door.

"Again," Maylon said. His voice was strained with the effort of holding the doors apart. "One, two, three!"

They pulled together. The doors came open and stayed there. Maylon turned the light back on. There was only about two feet of clearance, but it was enough. They were between decks. The floor was about three feet up. Curiously, the doors to the level below had opened as well. "After you," Maylon offered.

Bashir looked to the darkness beyond the door as his salvation. From the light of the palm beacon Maylon held, he could see the hatch of an access crawlway about five meters away. It wasn't far. But Maylon had an advantage. He had the light. Bashir scrambled up over the ledge and into the corridor.

"Give me a hand?"

"Hand me the light," Bashir suggested. If he could get the palm beacon, he would have the advantage. He could turn it off and use the darkness. Maylon would be lost in it.

"Never mind." The light clicked off, and Bashir heard it clatter onto the floor. Maylon was up before Bashir could even move one step down the corridor. Bashir sunk down to a crouched position. He held his breath to keep absolutely silent. He thought about the communicator. It might work. But using it would give his location away.

"I know what you were doing in sickbay, Julian." He sighed sadly. "You should have just kept out of business that wasn't yours." He stepped forward, and Bashir crawled silently sideways, still crouched, ready to run. He blew out his breath slowly and drew in another, still with no sound. "Sometimes I think you think you have to save the world. Sometimes, Julian, it just isn't your job."

Bashir slipped sideways again. Using his arms for balance, he first extended his left foot and then shifted his weight onto it, gritting his teeth against the pain. Then he pulled his other leg back beneath him. He'd covered nearly two meters already. Only three more. He could hear Maylon's steps. He had moved to the far side of the corridor, feeling for him along the wall. He had something in his hand and he let it slide along the metal wall, making an eerie screeching sound.

"You can't get away, Julian. I noticed you limping. Besides, I also know about your inferior sense of balance. I can catch you if you decide to run."

Bashir breathed again. He needed to be on the other side of the corridor. That's where the crawlway was. The screeching stopped and Bashir felt the air as Maylon's arm swung within inches of his face. Stretching out the other way, he moved again, crossing the corridor in one fluid movement. The screeching began on the wall he'd just left.

_Three more_, he thought. The pain in his ankle was so sharp that he doubted it was just a sprain. Maylon was still on the opposite wall, so he took another step, if it could be called that. His ankle burned. Another. _Almost there. Breathe_. He reached out his arm, feeling for the protruding edge of the crawlway's cover. The crawlways had saved his life before. He hoped they'd do so again. That is, if he didn't get lost once he was inside them. He promised himself that if he lived through this, he would memorize the schematics of the station better.

Once more he slid silently along the floor. His fingers brushed the edge of the cover. He had to open it and dive in, closing it behind him, as quickly as possible. Maylon would hear the sound. He moved to where he just in front of the cover and braced his fingers around it's edge.

"Sisko to Dr. Bashir." Bashir wanted to destroy his comm badge. He ripped off the cover of the crawlway and threw himself inside. It didn't matter now, Maylon would hear him. Something struck against his leg and a hand clasped hard around his left ankle, twisting it until Bashir cried out in pain. He tried to reach for his comm badge, but he needed his hands to pull himself along the crawlway. Maylon was trying to pull him back out into the corridor. He kicked with his free leg, but Maylon had a good grip with both hands. One good pull and Bashir slid backwards out of the crawlway, landing on top of Maylon.

Sisko's call repeated. "Sisko to Bashir. Please respond."

A bright light again flared in his face, and Maylon's gloved hand snatched the comm badge from Bashir's chest before he could right himself. The light moved forward brighter until Maylon slammed it along with his fist into Bashir's face. Bashir was dazed. The light clicked off again, and the darkness gave him hope. He edged back toward the crawlway again. But he was a little off. He felt the cold metal of the wall against his back.

Maylon's whole body slammed against him then, shoulders-first right into his ribs. Bashir heard and felt them crack. The breath was truly knocked from his lungs then. A hand gripped his chest and then his throat. Bashir swung out his arm and connected with Maylon's face, but then he heard a familiar whirring sound beside his ear. A small red line of light appeared less than an inch from his face. He froze. Laser scalpel.

"Hold still, Julian," Maylon said mockingly. Bashir could see him now. In the dim red light, Maylon truly looked like a murderer. He looked evil. The red reflected in two thin red lines in the darkness of his eyes. Bashir didn't move and Maylon removed his hand from his throat. The laser disappeared, but Bashir could still feel Maylon's hand and the smooth surface of the instrument beside his cheek. Then he heard the hypospray.

* * *

Commander Sisko was in Security when the lights went off. The security officers were ready with palm beacons, though, and the different rays of light cast multiple shadows of every person or object in the room. It was an eerie effect. He immediately tapped his comm badge, silently hoping that it still worked, and wondering, if it did, why none of them had thought about that before. Then again, they hadn't had direct access to the central computer before. "Mir, report," he ordered.

"Transport was successful," reported Mir. He sounded surprised. "The loss of the computer didn't effect it. I can't get anything now, though. Chief O'Brien has taken down the computer completely, just as he said."

Kira broke in. "Where did he transport to?"

"I can't remember exactly," Mir answered, "but it was on the habitat ring, level 3, section 7."

"Thank you." Kira turned to the commander. "I'll take some Security."

"And Major," Mir added, "I think there's only one more out there."

"What do you mean, Lieutenant?" Sisko asked.

"I checked the program text on the poison in the detention cell. It's set up to go off automatically for certain prisoners should someone request a recording of interrogation. Three names were visible. Theel's was an addition. He must have been a late-comer. Fin Liian and Targo Hern were the other names. There was one more, but it was encoded. I couldn't read it."

Kira nodded with satisfaction. Sisko was relieved. Things were getting a little easier. "That's helpful, Lieutenant. Stay put. As soon as we have him, we'll need the computer up again."

"Yes, sir."

"Lieutenant," Sisko caught him before the comm line disconnected, "did you remember to check for Bashir's signal before the failure."

"Yes, sir. I checked just after I cancelled the poison. He returned to the station about two minutes before the computer went down."

Kira was choosing two officers to go with her to level H3. Sisko stopped her. "Major, he hasn't reported back, has he?"

"No," she paused. "I'll keep an eye out for him."

Sisko nodded. "What about the civilians on the Promenade?"

"Already taken care of," she assured him. "The crew was ordered to escort them out of the corridors in case of power failure both here and in the habitat ring. There shouldn't be anyone on the docking ring. We cleared that before."

"Odo to Kira." The clang of his boots on the floor was clearly audible over the comm line.

"Here," Kira answered urgently.

"The suspect anticipated the transport. I'm in pursuit. She ran toward the docking ring."

"Description?"

"It's the nurse. Fareed Taleyn."

"We're on our way, Odo. Kira out." She headed toward the door with the two officers on her heels.

But Sisko was worried about other things. He just couldn't accept that Grant was the murderer, no matter how plausible it sounded with the drug addiction. But if he wasn't, someone else on the _Ranger _was. And Bashir should have been back by now. He tapped his comm badge again.

"Sisko to Dr. Bashir." There was no answer. Sisko waited, counting to thirty before he called again. "Sisko to Bashir. Please respond." Still nothing. Sisko picked up a phaser, a palm beacon, and a tricorder. "You're in charge here until Odo or Major Kira returns," he told one of the security officers. He remembered him. He was Tsingras's roommate.

* * *

Julian Bashir's first thought was panic. He knew he'd just been poisoned, just as the others had been. And he hadn't been able to find an antidote. But his Starfleet training had taught him to ignore the panic and to think through his problem to find a workable solution. The scalpel was no longer a threat. So he spread his arms out wide, knocking Maylon's hands away, and kicked forward with both his legs. They connected solidly with Maylon's body, and he heard him smack into the opposite wall.

Bashir reached out to the right, hoping to find the access crawlway. It wasn't there. Maylon responded quickly. The palm beacon flashed on again, and he shuffled to his feet. Now Bashir could see the crawlway, but Maylon quickly blocked his path. Bashir suddenly felt dizzy. Then Maylon's hand struck him across the face, sending him to the floor again. This time he couldn't get up. His whole body felt like rubber. Even with the light, he couldn't see. The floor was spinning and swimming beneath him. Maylon kicked him in the ribs for good measure, rolling him over onto his back.

"Not even a delay," Maylon commented with a bit of surprise. "That's good. Well, for me anyway. For you, too, I suppose. It'll be shorter." He took hold of Bashir's hand and dragged him back to the crawlway. Maylon pulled a pair of security hand restraints from his pocket and fastened one around Bashir's wrist. The other he connected to the inside of the crawlway.

Bashir tried to resist, but it was no use. He could do little more than raise his head. Maylon helped him to a sitting position. With the light, which was lying on the floor near the far wall, Bashir could now see his comm badge. If they were looking for him, he thought, they could still find him. There was a chance.

"Now, we can talk," Maylon said, crouching in front of Bashir. He was a little out of breath. "Oh, just a moment." He stood up and walked a few meters down the corridor, right to where the comm badge lay. "Here it is." He stomped on it with his booted heel, and it smashed into several large pieces. "How did it work? She took the computer down."

"She who?" Bashir asked, following Maylon with his eyes. It was difficult to focus. There were now three Maylons. They were all walking back to the three palm beacons lying on the floor.

"No sense wasting power." He clicked it off. Bashir heard him sit down again. "It's not like you're going anywhere. I suppose it doesn't matter now, so I can tell you. _She _is the Bajoran woman I've been looking for. I saw her young friend the first night out," and he added, "when I strangled the Gidari."

Bashir was actually glad the light had gone off. Seeing was making him sick. Besides he didn't want to die. If he could make it back to the Infirmary, there was a chance. Not much of one, but a chance. Maybe Dax could figure something out. Or Dr. Pynar. There would be no reason to not to call her now. He focussed his effort on the hand restraint. He pulled hard against it, clenching and unclenching his fist, stretching his fingers to make them as thin as possible. "Why?"

"Why not? Let's face it, Julian, they aren't doing the galaxy any favors. They're greedy, aggressive, and egotistical--"

"And you're not?" Bashir interrupted.

Maylon sounded hurt. "I thought we were friends, Julian."

That was too much. "You poisoned me, Maylon!" Bashir was incredulous.

"Well, that was your own fault. I hadn't planned to. You just walked into it. You got too close. I knew you wouldn't understand, anyway. How could you even have seriously suspected me? We lived together for three years, didn't we?"

Bashir didn't answer right away. He was trying not to make any sound. The restraint was cutting into his skin. But it was moving. It was just past the base of his thumb. "Why poison?" he finally asked.

"You mean instead of the scalpel." Maylon sighed. "True, that would've been a lot quicker. I suppose I wanted to see what the stuff would do. It's stenacine of course, like the others. But this time I tried both of those Gidari drugs you found. The first one took much too long. Besides, we wouldn't have had time to talk otherwise." Maylon was silent for a short time. Then he said, coldly, "I'd like the evidence you found."

"The tricorder," Bashir said. It was almost too hard to manage a full sentence. He was concentrating on the restraint. Blood trickled beneath his sleeve down his arm to his elbow.

"No, not the tricorder. You didn't store it there. Where is it?"

"My boot." Bashir wanted to tell the truth. He had been right about the Gidari drug. It was a truth serum.

"Which one?"

"Left."

Maylon found his foot easily, felt around the edge of the boot and, not too gently, removed the chip he had put there. Bashir didn't care. He hoped to live long enough to tell someone personally who the murderer was.

"What are you doing?" Maylon asked.

Bashir opened his mouth to tell him then promptly bit his lip to keep from it. His head was becoming clearer, but the pain from his ribs, his ankle, his hand, his face, all that was becoming stronger. It wasn't quite like he'd planned. When Dax and he had run the simulation, it had taken twenty minutes or so before the truth serum mutated. It was working considerably faster now.

Maylon turned on the light again just as Bashir pulled his hand free of the restraint. He stood up, and, instead of moving toward the crawlway, which was infinitely closer, and which Maylon expected, he lunged the opposite direction, back toward the turbolift's open doors.

Maylon was taken by surprise. He sprinted after Bashir, but it was too late. Bashir dove into the turbolift, falling the three feet to the floor. When Maylon reached the doors and looked in, Bashir was gone.

Bashir hit the floor of the turbolift and ducked under the ceiling of the next floor. The doors were open to the level below. He swung down, holding on to the turbolift and dropped to the floor. His ankle couldn't take it and he fell. Trying to be as quiet as possible, he got to his feet and ran forward, ignoring his ankle and his aching ribs. There had to be an access crawlway there, just where the one had been one level up, about five meters from the lift.

"You can't get far, Julian!" Maylon yelled. There was a loud thump as Maylon jumped into the turbolift. He didn't immediately follow. Bashir could see the light from his palm beacon through the open doors of the turbolift. Maylon had taken out his tricorder and was examining something on the floor.

There was just enough light to cause a shadow along the edge of the crawlway's cover. Julian slipped it off as quietly as he could. There was only a slight pop as it came free. His hand burned where the skin had torn. The cover was heavy, and he nearly dropped it. He slipped into the crawlway, hoping that he could find the way to the Promenade from here, or even just someone to help. Laying facedown in the small space, he braced his elbows and lifted the cover back into place. He felt a rib slip out of place, stirring up fresh pain. His breath came in pants and he felt cold.

He remembered the tricorder, still in the pouch at his waist. He wouldn't need light. The tricorder could show him where to go. He heard Maylon jump down to the corridor outside, and he moved on down the crawlway. He hadn't had time to activate the tricorder, so he crawled forward blindly, feeling along the wall for an intersecting crawlway. He was feeling weaker, and his stomach was churning. His head ached, too. His whole body hurt in places that Maylon had not even injured. He had a strange taste in his mouth and felt something wet like tears, but thicker, stickier, coming from his eyes. It burned.

He found the next crawlway and entered it. Behind him, the cover was removed and thrown loudly to the floor. A bright light filled the intersection. But Bashir was in shadow. He could not be seen. He pulled out the tricorder and kept going, crawling on his elbows and pulling his legs behind him. They cooperated some, but they felt heavy and spongy. Bashir rubbed his eyes and looked at the tricorder. There was a hatch on the floor. He found the lever to open it manually, but before he climbed down, he rubbed some of the blood from his hand onto the floor beyond. He was very careful to not leave any blood behind on the outside of the hatch.

Once inside, with the hatch safely closed above him, Bashir used the tricorder to check his condition. Among many other problems, his eyes were bleeding. That was the stickiness he had felt. But the blood wasn't right. The tricorder showed it to have a grayish tint, as opposed to the rich, dark red of healthy blood. The hemoglobin count was too low. And, of course, there was stenacine and too much of it. But he had little time or ability to contemplate this. He felt tired, and Maylon was still looking for him. His head was becoming fuzzy. He moved on. He had to make it to the Infirmary. It was the only thought he could hold on to.

* * *

Inara kicked off her shoes and ran faster, clutching her bag close to her side. There was no sound then, not from her, and not from the shapeshifter. She found the long crossover bridge. The docking ring was just beyond. O'Brien may have won the round, but the game wasn't over yet. She had two more bombs, and the Klingon ship would serve well as her final message. She had decided as she ran, that she would stay with the bombs, carry them through to the shipside door of the airlock. She would detonate them instantly. She would go to the Prophets before she'd go to their prisons.

She sprinted down the corridor, watching the stars stream by her in the viewports. She was thankful for the light. Her brother was wrong. Darkness wasn't a friend. It was something cold that seeped inside you. Inara needed the light.

She knew now that she was going to make it. She estimated the length as she ran, tried to count the viewports. Halfway across? She wasn't sure. She kept running. As she neared the end, she saw a beam of light along the wall. Footsteps. Inara slid to a stop, her socks gliding along the floor. She ducked behind the wall and watched. There was only one beam, one set of footsteps. Only one.

Inara took hold of her bag by the straps, kept them loose, and crossed her arms. She waited for the beam to come closer. It shined along the opposite wall. The steps came closer. A man came into view. He was Bajoran. It couldn't be helped. Before he could turn to scan the crossover bridge, she grabbed him from behind, slinging the loose straps of her bag over his head and around his neck. She uncrossed her arms, pulling the straps tight, and drug the man out of the corridor intersection.

Instinctively, his hands went to his throat. The palm beacon fell to the floor and broke, the glass shattering into little pieces. The man struggled. He flung his elbow back, to catch her in the ribs. But she anticipated this move and kicked one of his knees. He slumped hard to the floor. He almost fell forward, but Inara's grip on the bag held him up. He strained for breath, but she would not give it. Finally his eyes closed, and he became dead weight pulling against the straps of the bag. Inara whispered a prayer for his soul and let him fall. He didn't move.

The palm beacon was useless, but he also had a phaser. Inara took it and felt around the rest of his belt. He had a tricorder. This could be useful. She took it. Then she remembered. The shapeshifter had used his communicator. They were still working. She could listen in. She reached across the man's chest to take the emblem that also served as a communicator from his chest. She noticed then that it was moving. His hand shot up and grabbed at hers. He opened his mouth to yell, but his voice wouldn't come. He still gasped for a good breath.

Inara still had his phaser in her hand and she used it. The man's eyes closed again and he lay still. He was still breathing. She took his communicator and fastened it to her own shirt. Then she checked the corridor to see that it was clear. It was.

She looked back at the man on the floor. They would find him eventually. Perhaps too soon. He couldn't stay. Inara lifted the phaser in her hand, set it on high, and disintegrated his body. Then she stole into the corridor. She needed to think. She had an advantage now. She was armed. She saw an access crawlway a few meters down the corridor and slipped into it, pulling the cover closed behind her.

* * *

It took Commander Sisko a quarter of an hour to get to the docking ring. He didn't know where to start, except that Bashir had left the _Ranger_, which was docked at Pylon Two. That was just above him now. Sisko scanned for Bashir's comm badge, but the scan proved negative. But Bashir would have taken the turbolift from there. Of course, the turbolift would have stopped when the computer went down. Bashir might not have reached the docking ring. Sisko now had to find where the turbolift had stopped.

Sisko found the doors to the turbolift and scanned to see if the lift was behind them. Negative again, but the scan also showed negative for the next level on either side. Sisko bet that the turbolift was higher. There would have been no reason for Bashir to go any lower. The turbolift, if it was working, could have taken him all the way to the Promenade. So Sisko would go up, and the most direct path to the turbolift was the turbolift tube itself.

It wasn't easy to get the doors open. For safety reasons, they remained locked in place when the lift was not there. In emergencies, that could be overridden, but these were not normal circumstances. Sisko removed the cover from the panel beside the door and touched his comm badge. "Sisko to O'Brien."

"Here, Commander. Something wrong?"

"Yes. Doctor Bashir is missing." Sisko flashed his light into the open panel. "Chief, I've got to open a door. I want into the turbolift tube. I've got to override the security lock."

"You've got the panel off?" O'Brien asked.

"Yes."

"There should be a green line running diagonally down the back from left to right."

Sisko looked at the mass of circuits inside the panel. Usually glowing with energy, they all looked pale and colorless now. But there was a line running from the top lefthand corner to the lower right. "It's not green, but I think I've found it."

"Disconnect it. But be careful not to break the other connections. Then again, I don't guess it matters much now, with things as they are. We just won't be able to use the doors again for awhile. You'll have to pry the doors open by hand after that."

"Thanks Chief." Sisko reached into the panel, trying not to disconnect the other circuits inside. But it was no use. His hands were too big and without the direct light behind, he was unable to see clearly. There were too many shadows cast by the small light he held. The line came loose, but so did a few others before Sisko could remove his hand.

Sisko walked around to the front of the doors and placed the palm beacon, still shining, on the floor. The doors were heavy, but they did open, sliding back into the wall. Sisko got them open about a foot and a half and picked up the beacon again. He slipped in sideways until he was standing half inside the tube. He could see a ladder about a meter off to the left. He shined the light upward and saw the bottom of the lift about forty feet above.

Holding the door for balance, and keeping one foot on the floor between the doors, Sisko swung his other leg and hand over toward the ladder. He caught it with his wrist, still holding the beacon, and pulled himself over. Now all he had to do was climb. He turned off the beacon, slipping it into the pouch on his uniform. Then he started up the ladder, trusting that his feet and hands would find the next rung in the dark.

When he'd counted thirty-five rungs, he stopped and checked the light again. The turbolift was just above him. And to his right was an open door with about five feet of clearance between the floor and the bottom of the lift. Sisko leaned toward it stretching his arm as far as it would go. He could reach the edge of the doorway. He set the beacon there, aiming it just a little off to the left. Then he found a grip there at the door and let go of the ladder. Using his arms, he pulled himself up.

The lift had stopped between levels. Sisko couldn't see into it directly, so he checked the tricorder again. This time Bashir's comm badge was easily picked up. In fact there were three shown to be in the immediate area. One was identified as Sisko himself, the other as Bashir. The third was not identified. It was in the lift. Bashir's was just above him on the next level. Its signal wasn't clear. It appeared damaged.

Sisko scanned for life signs, but there were none besides his own. There was an open access crawlway five yards away on the right. There was a little blood on the floor as well. Sisko thought maybe he was too late. Bashir had apparently found something in the _Ranger_'s sickbay. But someone else had found him. It could have been the terrorist, but Sisko didn't think so. His instincts told him that the murderer had been on that ship, not safely under guard in the Infirmary. Bashir had been wrong.

If he was too late, Sisko wanted to make sure that Bashir was the last victim. So he still had to go up. There was another communicator in the turbolift. Whose was it? The communicator in the lift might be the key he needed to finally catch the killer. Sisko set the beacon on the floor of the lift and reached up to pull himself into it. But his hand found something sticky. Checking it in the light, he could see that it was more blood. It was a strange color, but the tricorder identified it as human.

Sisko pulled himself up quickly, half-expecting to find Bashir's body there. But really, it wasn't enough blood. The turbolift was empty. There was only a little more blood on the floor and, nearly lost in a corner, a Starfleet communicator. The tricorder still could not identify the signal. Sisko concluded that it was not a crew member. He was willing to bet it belonged to someone from the _Ranger_. He put in a pocket.

Bashir's signal had come from the level above. The floor was only three feet up from the floor of the lift, and Sisko jumped up easily, shining the light in front of him. Bashir was not to be found. Another crawlway was open here. Bashir's communicator lay not far from that, partially smashed on the floor. In the crawlway's opening, a pair of hand restraints hung loosely. One was covered in the same strange-colored blood and even small bits of skin. Someone had pulled himself loose. That was where the blood had come from. Maybe Bashir was still alive.

Sisko checked the tricorder, scanning the interior of the crawlway. Nothing. No life signs, no blood. Then he thought. Maybe he had it backwards. He'd gone down from here through the turbolift, leaving his blood on the edge as he swung over. Sisko returned to the turbolift and quickly climbed down to the next level. Taking the beacon again, he went to the crawlway. There was blood smeared on the floor inside. Sisko climbed in.

* * *

Bashir couldn't remember having left the access crawlways. But now he was standing, leaning against a cold, metal wall. And he thought he could see stars. He blinked hard and tried to wipe some of the blood from his eyes. But he lost his balance when he tried and fell again to the floor, panting from the pain. He felt like he was breathing water. He coughed and blood gurgled in his throat. He closed his eyes. Sleep was waiting for him, and the pain edged softly away.

He forced his eyes open and tried to start himself breathing again. That brought the pain back full force. Ignoring it as best as he could, he pulled his legs up under him and tried to sit up. His elbows buckled though from the strain, and he smacked his shoulder on the floor. But he tried again anyway. He had to get to the Infirmary. He wanted to live.

He did manage to get to his feet again. He staggered along dazedly, clutching the wall with trembling hands to hold himself up. He couldn't see the stars anymore. His eyes were too sticky. He tried to think, to keep his mind going. He thought of Elizabeth. She was coming to meet him. He tried to imagine what she looked like, but it all faded away again. The only other thing he could think of was death, and he didn't want that. _Just keep moving_, he told his legs. Was he even standing anymore? He couldn't tell.

In fact, he wasn't, but he was crawling, dragging his legs behind him halfway along the crossover bridge to the habitat ring. He could no longer distinguish between up, down, or sideways. It all made him dizzy. He thought he heard footsteps behind him, but then he realized that it was just the thunder, rolling away with the storm. A last bolt of lightening flashed and the whole hut became visible for a moment before disappearing again into darkness. The little girl lay shivering on the floor beneath his father's coat.

Julian stood and looked out the door again at the ominous horizon of the Invernia II, hoping to see his father returning with help. The wind was still strong, and it wailed and blew in his eyes. He shut the door. He walked over to the girl. She didn't look much younger than him. Maybe eight. She shook violently from the cold, but sweat beaded her forehead. Her eyes were closed, but she spoke softly under her breath. He couldn't understand her. He didn't know the language like his father did. She cried sometimes too.

Julian sat down, leaning against the wall, and checked the time. It was four in the morning. He was tired, but he knew he couldn't sleep. Father had said to give her water when she woke up, but she hadn't woken up yet. He had to wait. He didn't know much about sick people, but he was worried about her. Father wouldn't have left her here if she wasn't bad. He wished that he knew how to help her. But he didn't even know why she was sick.

Just then she opened her eyes. She looked afraid. She cried out something and then closed her eyes again. She didn't move. She stopped talking. She stopped breathing. Julian closed his eyes and cried. Warm tears ran down his face, and the darkness of the night covered him.

* * *

"I'm surprised you got this far, Julian," Maylon said sadly. He looked down at his former roommate. Julian lay face-down and facing toward the wall on the corridor floor, his arms folded beneath him. His eyes were closed and his face was pale gray. Blood trickled from his eyes. Maylon couldn't see him breathing. "It's about time."

He sighed and knelt down to be closer. He felt on Julian's neck for a pulse. His skin was cold. He couldn't find the pulse. "I wouldn't have done it, Julian," he said. "if you hadn't figured it out. If you had just called for those records, I could have given you whatever you wanted. I would've had to change a few things. But at least you'd still be alive. I know you won't understand, Julian, but I'm sorry."

Maylon stood and walked away. He had to get back to his ship. He was late already. But, of course, he could say he got lost when the lights went out. He could leave the palm beacon behind somewhere. He worried a little about the blood on his uniform, but then decided that he could explain that away relatively easily. It didn't even look like blood. The Gidari chemicals had changed it somehow. It was interesting. But anyway, it was really only on the knees of his pants, which were black. It wouldn't even show up until he reached the ship's side of the airlock and the light there.

* * *

Major Kira lifted one of the shoes from the floor. Their plan seemed to be working. Fareed Taleyn, if in fact that was her name, had apparently tried to transport or use the computer in some manner and found it useless. She discarded the computer only two corridors down from her residence. Odo had had to return to his office to regenerate and had literally stumbled across it lying on the floor. There was no reason, then, not to turn the computer back on and bring up some of its functions. But after consulting with O'Brien and Sisko, it had been decided to leave most functions down. While the darkness hampered efforts to find Fareed, and Doctor Bashir, it also hampered her ability to escape. The shoes were simple. "She's trying not to be heard," Kira concluded.

They did, however, have the advantage of the security sensors and Ops. With them, Sisko could hopefully find the missing doctor, and Kira and Security could track down the last remaining terrorist. That's how they had found her shoes on the long crossover bridge to the docking ring.

One officer was staring at his tricorder. "There's something at the end of the corridor, sir."

Kira and the others ran down to the intersection where the crossover bridge joined the docking ring. But they could see nothing. The corridor was empty. The officer, a big barrel-chested human, checked his tricorder again. "It's back here." He walked back, still watching the readout on the tricorder, until he was standing just where the tricorder said he should. "Here."

Two beams of light focused on his arm and then followed where he pointed, all the way down to the floor. Kira couldn't see anything except that it was black. "What is it?" she asked.

"It's organic," the officer answered, "or at least it was. It's a phaser burn. Someone died here."

Kira stepped forward to peer at the tricorder for herself. "Can you tell who it was?" She worried that perhaps they'd come across Dr. Bashir. Sisko had told her about the broken communicator and the blood in the corridor. Or maybe it was Fareed, having decided to join her comrades in suicide.

The man seemed to know what she was thinking. "It was Bajoran. And it's really too big to have been the woman we're looking for."

That ruled out Bashir as well. And no civilians should have been in the area. But with the computer up, there was a possibility of finding out who it was. "Kira to Ops."

"Ops."

"Does the computer register any crew members as missing?"

"Only Dr. Bashir, sir. Everyone else shows up on the scan."

That didn't help. "Kira out." They'd have to wait until they had Fareed and everyone was accounted for. If Fareed had killed the man, then she might have taken his communicator. And since the communicators were personalized to each crew member, she would show up on the computer as just another member. It would also mean that she was now armed. "She had to have gone on to the docking ring. So let's check there."

* * *

The tricorder was picking up life signs ahead. Sisko had emerged from the crawlways one level up, following a trail of blood on the floor. The trail had then led down, back to the crossover bridge. The blood then had been on the walls in distinct hand-shaped marks. Sisko walked faster. There was a little light from the stars out past the viewports as well as that from his palm beacon. He could see something on the floor near the wall. It was black, like a shadow, but with shape. It didn't move. As he neared, the palm beacon caught a thin band of blue color against the black.

Sisko ran toward it, forgetting caution. If it had been someone from the _Ranger_, the blue would have covered a larger area. If it had been a security officer, there wouldn't have been blue at all. It had to be Bashir. He was lying face-down as if he'd been crawling, with his arms pulled up underneath him. He didn't seem to be breathing.

Sisko knelt down and gently touched his shoulder. He didn't move. Sisko rolled him over, until he was holding Bashir in his arms. Sisko turned his head and was shocked at his appearance. He looked dead. He looked worse than dead. His face was a sickly pale, ghostly in the dim light. His eyes were closed and dark from blood. It seeped from his eyes and the corner of his mouth. And Sisko could hear it in his lungs and throat as he breathed. But at least he was breathing. It was shallow, but it was there. Bashir's right hand was bloody as well, where he had pulled it free of the security restraints. It was the only visible wound he could find.

And then he stopped breathing. Sisko had been just about to call for an emergency transport. He did so now with greater haste. The transporter beam took them almost instantly and transported them to the brightly lit interior of the Infirmary. Sisko had been in the dark so long that the light stung his eyes. Dax was waiting there with two nurses. "He's stopped breathing," Sisko announced as one nurse took Bashir's feet. The computer lit up as they placed him on the biobed, still not breathing.

"He can't," the nurse said. "His trachea's blocked. We need a doctor. He's been poisoned."

"Stenacine?" Sisko asked, clenching his hands. The nurse nodded. Only the Klingons had survived the stenacine. Sisko looked to the security guard who stood guard over the cubicle. Grant had invented it. He could help. But he was also addicted to it and was in no condition to practice medicine. But Bashir didn't have a choice. "Let Grant out. We need his help."

Dax ran to obey and Grant, looking determined and much more himself, took over the situation immediately, trying several instruments, then pushing them aside when they were unsuccessful. Finally he opted for a long tube which he ran down Bashir's throat. Then he pumped on Bashir's chest with his own hands until the displays showed that he was breathing again.

"I don't know what we'll do, Benjamin," Dax said quietly as they watched. Her usually calm face was set in worry. Something in her eyes made her look her age, like she'd seen too much of death in her seven lifetimes. "It's also the Gidari drugs. Both of them. When Julian and I ran a simulation, mixing them was fatal. It was an acid."

But Sisko wasn't ready to give up, and he knew Dax wasn't either. "You work on the stenacine. Maybe Grant's the answer. He's built up a tolerance to it, hasn't he? Maybe there's something there that can help. I'll talk to the Gidari. Keep him alive until I get back."

The trip to Ops was fast as he ordered Mir to release the turbolift that would take him there. Ops was normally darker than the Infirmary, but it's vivid colors glowed brightly from every console and the lights on the walls were shining. "Put me through to the _Gindarin_, in my office." The communications technician saw the tough set of Sisko's jaw and scrambled to make the connection.

Sisko stopped before entering his office. Chief O'Brien was standing near the sensor controls. Like everyone else, he was watching the commander. Sisko tossed him the comm badge he'd found in the turbolift. "Get in touch with the _Ranger_. I want to know who this belongs to. And then I want him found." All of Ops was silent when the doors hissed shut behind him.

* * *

Inara watched the commander of the station transport away with the doctor. She blew out the breath she'd been holding. She was standing between two viewports only a few meters away from them and on the other side of the corridor. Her phaser was set on its highest setting. He had just passed by her on his way to the unconscious doctor. She was glad he had. The commander had been scanning every inch of the corridor. But once he'd seen the doctor, he ran straight to him, passing her by. If he hadn't, he would have found her. And there would have been a fight, and that would have easily tipped others off to where she was.

It had been a bit of work to find their communications signal. They'd changed the frequency. But she'd found it and tapped in using the tricorder. She could hear everything that was said. That's how she'd learned of the doctor. He'd gone missing, and when they found his broken comm badge near the docking ring, they assumed murder. And in assuming murder, they assumed the murderer was still on the station. The same murderer had killed Liian, and Inara was determined to find him first. Then she knew what she'd do with the two remaining bombs.

But now she was at a loss. She'd lost him. She was sure that the murderer had followed the doctor, but she didn't know where he went from there. Perhaps back to his ship, but which way? If he'd gone directly, he probably would have run into Sisko. Inara opened the tricorder again, scanning for other life signs before she brought up the communications link. No one was around, so she listened in.

Things were quiet. She was about to close it again and move off toward the ship, but then two calls were made, both external. One was to the Gidari, concerning the doctor. She ignored that one. It wouldn't help her. The other was more interesting. Sisko had found a communicator in the turbolift where Bashir had been. O'Brien was calling the _Ranger _to find out whose it was. Perfect.

"We've got a lock on it," the _Ranger _crewman said. "Just a moment. Yes, it belongs to Dr. Maylon. Let me see if I can get you some information on him."

"Thank you, Commander." There was silence after that.

Maylon. It was that awful, arrogant human who had been watching her, following her. She remembered how she saw him staring at her and Liian the day he died. She felt sick. He'd sat flirting with her that night, just before he'd killed her cousin.

The conversation began again. "He left the ship with your doctor just before the lights went out. He hasn't returned. His shift started thirty minutes ago. He's the one, you think?"

"It looks that way, Commander," O'Brien said.

"I'll transmit his records, and we'll notify you if he turns up on the ship."

"Thank you."

"Lairton out."

O'Brien then passed on the information to the Security patrols who were prowling the station looking for her. But Inara already knew what Maylon looked like. She wanted to know where he was.

* * *

"Why should we help you, Commander?" Sanglin Nardek asked. "You insulted us, lied to us, and demanded that we leave your station."

Sisko thought about his answer. He did not want to show weakness to these people. And yet, he knew Bashir would die without them. "Captain, I realize that relations between us have been rather strained in the past. But you are the only ones who can help. A man is dying because of Gidari drugs. We do not know how to counteract them."

"Gidari drugs. How do you know they are Gidari?"

"They match samples previously seen in the death of Lieutenant Tsingras as well as other poisoning victims."

"You should not have any such samples. All information on everything Gidari was to be handed over to us."

"Whoever killed your crewman does not seem to care about such promises," Sisko said. "The killer has been replicating the drugs and poisoning people on this station with them."

Nardek was still suspicious. "How is he getting such information?"

That was a good question. Sisko had his own ideas. "I don't know. But it's hard to keep a secret on this station. My suspicion is that he bought it."

"We want all such information turned over to us immediately!"

Sisko imagined that Nardek's face was red. Or purple, considering what Bashir had told them. "Not until you help us. We'll need that information to try to find an antidote on our own. If you help us, that wouldn't be necessary. Help us and I'll make sure everything is turned over to you, not only from this station, but from the _Ranger _as well. It was replicated there."

"And the murderer."

"He's killed one Gidari, which you avenged with the death of an innocent man. I'm sure the Bajorans and Klingons, as well as the Federation, will want claim to him also." The Klingons had already laid claim to the murderer when he was caught. The Bajorans had lost more to him than anyone else, and this was their station.

"We get the murderer, or we take what we want and don't help your doctor."

Sisko hadn't told them who the dying man was. They knew more than they were letting on as well. He remembered how they had come into Dax's laboratory and took what they wanted. They'd also transported Bashir and a nurse right off the station when the computer had been up and running and all the security features in place. They had the ability to do what Nardek was threatening. And Bashir would die anyway. "When he's found," Sisko said finally, "he's yours."

Nardek's voice was much softer then. "Where is your doctor now?"

"In the Infirmary."

"Have it cleared of all other personnel. We will come."


	14. Chapter Fourteen

﻿

**Star Trek: Deep Space Nine**

**If It's Not One Thing...**

A Novel by

Gabrielle Lawson

**Chapter Fourteen**

The Infirmary was ominously silent and still. Four people stood just outside the door waiting. Inside, the two Klingons slept, still unconscious but recovering from the poison they'd ingested. On another biobed, Dr. Bashir lay unconscious and nearly unrecognizable. His hand had been bandaged and the blood had been wiped from his face. But his eyes still bled, releasing grayish red liquid onto his ashen face.

A blue light lit the room, causing all the instruments to flutter off then on. When the light faded, three figures in red cloaks stood in the room. One was a woman, the priestess of the Gidari on the _Gindarin_. She stepped forward, studying the displays above Bashir's biobed. The two others stood stiffly guarding the door. Taking off one glove, the priestess extended her arm. Her hand hovered just inches from Bashir's face. It began to shake as she ran it down the length of his body. Then she pulled back her hood, revealing her aqua-blue skin. She opened Bashir's eyes and stared hard into them with the sheer whiteness of her own. The ends of her silver hair fell down across her shoulder and brushed against his face.

Releasing his eyelids, she pulled the equipment from his throat and body. She paused only at the tube that poured new blood into his veins. His lungs began to struggle for breath. She ignored it and took his good hand in hers. She opened his palm and placed something in it. For a moment it clenched tightly shut, and then it relaxed, dropping back onto the bed. The struggling stopped. His breathing came evenly and his pulse became stronger. She ran her hand along his body again, from the top of his head to his feet. This time it shook less violently.

She replaced her hood, touched something inside her sleeve, and her two companions disappeared in the blue light. She walked to the door and waited for it to open. The eager faces of the four outside were startled to see her. "He is damaged," she said.

"Will he live?" Grant asked.

"That depends on you." She stepped back and the door closed again. She touched her sleeve and the blue light came again, transporting her back to her ship.

The door opened just after she'd gone, and the four rushed in. Everyone was quiet when they entered. Grant checked the computer to see what the Gidari had done. The nurses began to clean up the equipment that had been removed. Dax was the first to notice that Bashir's eyes were open. With the amount of stenacine he'd been given, that should never have happened again.

She walked up to him and slowly leaned towards him. His eyelids fluttered, trying to close again, but he kept them open. He saw her, focussed on her eyes. The white of his eyes were a bright red, but so was the blood that leaked from their corners. Normal. Very quietly, so that Dax wasn't quite sure that he'd spoken at all, he said, "I'm not dead?" There was no voice, only the air slipping from his lips.

"No, you're not dead, Julian," she told him, holding his good hand and rubbing it gently.

He was losing the battle with his eyelids. They fell closer and closer together every time he blinked. "That's good," he said, just before his eyes rolled up under his eyelids, and he lay unconscious again.

Grant was watching. He waited for Bashir to lose consciousness again before he spoke. His voice was full of wonder. "It's gone. Or at least it's different. Look at this."

Dax followed his gaze to the computer screen. The poison, half stenacine and half a mixture of the two now-familiar Gidari drugs, had been slowly destabilizing Bashir's tissues and changing his blood, destroying the hemoglobin that carried oxygen to his cells. But now, all traces of the original poison were gone from his blood. What was left was a compound of stenacine and something entirely new. But more importantly, the new drug had neutralized the previous two and most of the stenacine as well. Bashir's hemoglobin count was still too low, his tissues still too weak. But they were gradually getting stronger, and the transfusions of blood were building up his blood supply.

Grant himself had supplied the blood, rather than having it simply replicated from the computer. Grant supplied the first pint, which was then replicated before it was given to Bashir. Either that or whatever the Gidari had done seemed to be working. Dax began to think that maybe Bashir would live after all.

Grant seemed to know what she was thinking. "Oh, he'll live. I won't lose him again." There was a spark in his eye, a determination that Dax didn't quite understand. But he continued, "He's still bleeding internally. We've got to get that stopped."

* * *

Maylon climbed the last few rungs and saw the light from the _Ranger _gleaming through the glass on the airlock door. The two guards were still standing by the door, as if someone could get in or out without a lot of fuss. _No matter, _he sighed. He'd made it. No one would know. But the one on the left saw Maylon first as he neared them and gave a strange nod of recognition. Then he touched his comm badge.

The second one spoke to cover his companion's transmission. Maylon grew suspicious and stood still, coming no closer to the door and inching, in fact, back toward the ladder he'd just climbed. "We were told to keep an eye out for you, Dr. Maylon. They said you were late reporting for your shift. Everyone's been worried, what with the lights out and all."

Maylon was only half listening. He wanted to know what the other security officer was saying over the comm line. "I got lost," Maylon said by way of excuse. "I assummed the communications system was down with the rest of the station."

"Oh, have you seen Dr. Bashir? He's gone missing as well. Was he in the turbolift with you?" The second man asked. He was finished with his transmission.

"No." Maylon started to get the impression that the security officers were stalling. They'd called for back-up. They knew. Somehow they knew. But how? Maylon rubbed his chest as he thought, and the answer was clear to him. The comm badge. He'd thrown it down in the turbolift, thinking it useless and hoping to fool Bashir into thinking that it was the palm beacon. But he'd forgotten it in the chase that ensued. He'd wanted to make sure that Bashir was dead, so that he couldn't tell anyone. But he'd left his signature behind instead.

Maylon felt his face grow hot. He didn't know what to do. He couldn't go back to the ship now, not if they knew. He had to stay on the station. Perhaps the Ferengi boy would hide him, for a price of course, the little scrounger. He could get him on another ship, away from here. That's it. He had to try.

Because of his silence, the security guards were beginning to suspect him as well. They stepped toward him. But Maylon jumped feet-first into the hole he'd just left. He caught the ladder and slid down to the next level, disappearing into the darkness. "He's just gone down," the _Ranger_'s security man said.

"Acknowledged. He can't get out of the pylon. We'll get him. Kira out."

* * *

Inara put the tricorder into her bag and took hold of the ladder. She was too low. She estimated the time as she climbed. By now Maylon was one or two levels down the pylon. She had to get to him before Major Kira did. She wouldn't get her chance if they had him. But that wasn't going to happen. She wouldn't let it. She'd have her revenge. The two armed bombs rattled in the bag she'd slung across her shoulders. They were already set. They'd go off at her command.

_If he's coming straight down_, she thought, _he'd probably be down six or seven levels. But what if he stopped off?_ Inara stopped, hooked an elbow around the ladder and checked the tricorder. She was glad she had stopped. The tricorder was showing life signs, just two levels above her. Multiple life signs. One set, presumably Maylon, was directly above, still on the ladder. The others had to be Security, closing in from the sides but one level below him. She couldn't see any light above her. They had him cornered in the service corridors. It was a trap. And it was working. Maylon's life signs were coming closer.

Inara let the tricorder fall back into the bag and climbed the ladder again, but more slowly, moving up two levels. She silently slipped out onto the floor and waited to see if they'd heard her. Still no light. She stepped back until she felt the wall behind her. No one said a word. But there was sound. Maylon was not being so careful. His boots rang on the rungs as he shuffled down. Inara took one of the bombs from the bag and covered it's blinking red light with her hand. "Stop where you are!" Kira's voice commanded and the lights came on from the two opposing directions. Maylon was startled.

"You stop where you are," Inara returned, stepping from the shadows. She held the phaser she'd stolen so that Kira could see. "Drop your weapons, or you'll be the first to meet the Prophets."

Kira didn't back down. "You're both under arrest. Put the phaser down or we'll shoot."

Inara thought it was just as well that she did hold her ground. _The more the merrier, as the humans say. _"I don't think so."

Kira tried to reason with her. "That man is a murderer, Miss Fareed."

"And I'm a terrorist, right?" Inara was anxious for this to end, though it didn't really matter much. The end would be the same. Her finger was on the button that would destroy her and Maylon and anyone else who got too close. "Just like you were. I know he's a murderer. That's why he's going with me. Fin Liian was the only family I had left." She raised her other hand, letting the little red light blink on and off openly. "And my name's Inara. Drop the weapons."

Kira thought for a minute and then slowly lowered her phaser toward the floor. She nodded for the others to do the same. Maylon was beside himself. "You can't do this!" he shouted to them. "She'll kill us all! I'll come with you. No resistance. I'm turning myself in." He took a tentative step toward the major.

"No," Inara said, coldly. "You're not."

Maylon froze, afraid to go any farther. Inara pressed the button. She thought for a moment that she saw a flash of the most beautiful blue she'd ever seen. But she only thought for a moment. The blast ripped her apart instantly, from her fingers to her toes.

* * *

Kira's eyes were closed against the bright light. She hadn't thought it bright before, but after so long in the dark, it was dazzling and blinding at the same time. She breathed heavily, leaning against the thick walls that had kept the explosion contained in the corridor.

She'd done it. Part of her couldn't believe that Fareed, or Inara, had actually set off the bomb, blowing herself to bits. But then Kira knew how Inara and others like her thought. She'd give up her life for what she believed in, for the chance to avenge the death of her family. Kira would have. She had nearly done so on several occasions during the fight for freedom from the Cardassians. But if you really believed that Bajor still wasn't free and was hungering for slavery again, begging for it from the Federation, then would life really be something worth hanging on to?

"All clear, Major," Mir spoke over the comm line. "The fire's out."

"That was quick thinking, Mr. Mir," Kira told him. "I'm glad you were listening in."

"Just doing my job, sir," Mir replied modestly. "Didn't it say in my job description that I was supposed to be a hero and save the whole station?"

Kira smiled. "Something like that. It also said to fix the computer. Open the door, Mr. Mir."

The door obediently opened. The corridor was black, though it hadn't been cheery before, and covered with soot. The air smelled of smoke, but there was no fire, just as Mir had said. There were also no bodies. Kira hadn't expected one from Inara. She'd been holding the bomb in her hand. But Maylon was nowhere to be found. She turned to the barrel-chested officer. True to his form, he had his tricorder out.

"I'm registering organic debris," he said, "but it's not enough to be two people."

* * *

Maylon opened his eyes to darkness. He wasn't sure he'd opened his eyes at all. _This must be death, _he thought with wonder. He felt no pain, no fear, nothing. He was lying down. He felt calm, peaceful. One light appeared in front of him, though he couldn't see its source. He'd often heard stories about near-death experiences. Everyone always saw a light. _This is death, _he thought. _See, Julian, it's not so bad. _He laughed, and that's when he first felt the pressure against his chest.

His tried to lift his head to see what it was but he couldn't lift it. Something held him across the forehead. His arms and legs were useless as well. He could now feel the straps that held him down.

"Struggling is of no use," said a female voice, deep and a bit husky. She stepped toward him and leaned over his face.

She was beautiful. Her skin was perfect, an aqua-blue in color, with a clear complexion and high cheekbones. Her eyes shone pure white. Her silvery hair fell over her shoulder and brushed like silk against his face.

If he didn't know any better, he might have thought that she was an angel. But he'd seen Gidari before. She took something from the inside of her cloak sleeve, a small box or device. Maylon followed it with his eyes. "No!" he screamed. But the scream was cut short as the device bit into his throat, cutting the vocal cords. The pain was unbearable, but he was surprised that he could breathe. _I'll die soon_, he thought. _It will all be over soon. _

But even as he thought it, they began to chant. He couldn't see where the other voices came from, but he could hear them as they echoed off the walls of the room. He realized then that they'd been chanting all along, though quietly, and he had let himself believe that it was the music of heaven.

The priestess took something else from her sleeve, and he heard a soft hiss close to his ear. He felt the substance enter his system in a cold stream that ran from his neck to his feet. He shuddered, straining the straps that held him. He began to feel dizzy, and he could no longer feel the straps or even the bed beneath him. All external feeling was gone. There was only the inside, the cold, the dizziness, and the light. And of course, the chanting.

* * *

Ops was buzzing, not so much with activity, but with voices. And the voices were generally happy ones. The terrorists were dead, with the exception of Theel who sat forlornly in a detention cell in Security. But there was one mystery still to wonder about. Rumors spread quickly over the station, but their speed always surprised Commander Sisko. The murderer was a Starfleet officer, and the Federation has hidden him. Or he had died with the woman terrorist, blown into so many parts that he was unrecognizable even to a tricorder. Or maybe the Klingons had gotten hold of him. There was no sympathy. He'd get what he deserved.

But Sisko knew, and he'd told Major Kira when she reported back that they had only found one set of remains. The Gidari ship was the first to request clearance to leave, just after the explosion in the pylon. Sisko had granted it. They were out of the sector before Kira ever reached Ops. The murderer had gone with them. Sisko was sure of it.

At first, Kira fumed when she learned that the Gidari got Maylon, that Sisko had agreed to it. After all, nearly half of his victims had been Bajoran, and she was the liaison officer. She should have been consulted. When she had calmed down a bit, she had acknowledged that there was no time to consult and that the Gidari had been right. They could take whatever they wanted at any time. It would have been useless to deny them. They would have simply stolen Maylon from the station.

The computer was now functioning perfectly, and it wasn't even nine in the morning. The crew was sleepy, but morale was high. Things were back to normal, whatever that really meant. O'Brien was in a state of scarcely concealed admiration. He set a small gray object on Sisko's desk. It was no bigger than the size of two tricorders placed side by side.

Sisko waited for an explanation.

"That's it," O'Brien declared. "She was brilliant."

Sisko knew what his Chief of Operations was getting at. "_This _is the computer?" It seemed awfully small to have taken complete control of the central computer on the station.

O'Brien nodded. "That's it." He opened the computer and powered it up. It was no longer in contact with the central computer, but all the programs Inara Taleyn had used were still available. "She had access to everything," he stated and pulled up a list of programs to prove his point. "She could have destroyed this station and any ships in the area with just a simple command. She could have sucked the air from the habitat ring and killed everyone or simply transported all of the Federation personnel off." He let that sit for a moment. "Why are these people always working against me instead of for me?"

Dax interrupted their conversation from Ops. "Benjamin, Gul Dukat has just requested clearance to dock."

Things were definitely back to normal. Sisko sighed and straightened his uniform. "Grant it." He could already feel his body stiffening in anticipation of the gul's visit.

* * *

Julian Bashir tried to sit up a little higher on the bed, but he just couldn't. He didn't have the strength. And every movement caused pain somewhere in his body. Even breathing hurt. As did the fact that he had Grant to thank for his life. Now he was indebted to him. Of course, he was grateful to be alive, but why did it have to be Grant?

Grant came over to check on him. Bashir couldn't help but notice that his hands shook a little. He was still a stenacine addict. He couldn't change that in one night. He wasn't actually fit to practice medicine, but there was no one else to do it. Bashir was in no condition. "How do you feel?" Grant asked him.

He wasn't prepared for the hoarseness of his voice when he answered. "How do I look?"

"That bad, hmm?" Grant studied the readings on the biobed and his tricorder for a few minutes. He was serious when he spoke again. "I can't give you anything for the pain. We just don't know how it would react with whatever the Gidari gave you."

"The Gidari?" Bashir thought he remembered everything. Maylon had poisoned him. He rubbed his burning eyes with his bandaged hand, and a little bit of dried blood came away on the bandage.

"Careful. You'll start them bleeding again. Apparently, they gave you an antidote," Grant replied. "We've had a few problems repairing the damage. You just didn't seem to want to heal."

"Like with Reyna." He had meant to make a full sentence and to speak more coherently, but it took a lot of effort to force the words out. "It's the Gidari--"

"Yes, that's what we assumed, but we managed. Just be careful and don't overexert yourself." He was silent for a few minutes, but he didn't go away. "I'll be leaving soon," he said finally. "The _Ranger _has been cleared to continue with her mission. We'll be leaving tomorrow afternoon. Dr. Pynar will be staying here for a day or two. She'll meet back up with us on the other side."

Bashir said nothing. He should have been happy at the news. Grant would be gone, into the Gamma Quadrant. He'd stay gone for years. But he didn't feel anything. Or at least, he didn't know what it was he was feeling.

Grant continued, "You know as well as I that I shouldn't be going with them. But Commander Lairton has agreed to let me stay on. With twenty-four-hour supervision, of course, until they're sure I'm off the stuff." He took a few deep breaths. "I want to thank you, and I want to apologize. You were right. I think on some subconscious level I was trying to die. No one knew, except Dr. Maylon."

"Maylon," Julian interrupted. "Did they catch him?" He hadn't been told.

"You don't have to worry. He's dead." Grant looked away. It was obviously difficult for him, what he was trying to say. "You saved my life, Julian. I want to thank you for that. I want to apologize for when you were young, for wishing you were dead."

Julian didn't speak. He was tired of talking about it. Grant had already apologized. Bashir had already said that that wasn't enough. Nothing could change the situation. Talking about it again would only cause more problems. He turned his head away.

Grant wasn't looking directly at him now anyway. "You were my son," he went on. "I should have given my life for you, like you're mother did. But I would've traded you for her. That was wrong. I thought I knew that already, but I didn't. I didn't really know it until I saw you lying here about to die. I was so afraid that you would die. I didn't feel that before. I should have, but I didn't. I was so obsessed with your mother's death. And then I didn't see you again. I could pretend that it all wasn't real.

"I know that you still hate me," he stated when Bashir still didn't say anything, "and I'll have to accept that. You've got every right. I won't bother you anymore, and I won't come back. Elizabeth hates me, too. I took her brother away. She called. She didn't want to speak to me. She just wanted to say she'd be here in a week. She's coming in on a Tellarite freighter. The _Uglaght_, I believe."

Elizabeth. Julian had been listening. And now he felt both excited and sad. He'd missed her call. He didn't even know what she looked like. But she was coming. He'd have a sister again. But there was still a brother. "And George?" Julian asked. He knew that Grant had lied before. "What did he say? The truth."

"George is too much like his father," Grant apologized. "It's not his fault really. It's mine. I started the lie. He was traumatized by the whole thing. He didn't want to know the truth, Julian. I'm sorry."

No, it wasn't Grant's fault. Not this time. It was George. "He doesn't want to know about me," Julian said. Grant shook his head, and Julian was quiet for awhile. It hurt, physically. He could feel it in his stomach. He'd never known Elizabeth. But George was his brother. They'd played together when they were young. Julian had longed to see him for so many years. And now George didn't want to hear the truth. George didn't want to see him. "That isn't fair," Julian said. "I'm still the one being punished, aren't I?" He hadn't meant to raise his voice. The pain in his stomach grew stronger.

Grant turned away. "I tried, Julian. I promise you, I tried. It was just too hard for him."

Julian wasn't listening. He realized now that the pain in his stomach was real. It was overpowering. Grant wasn't watching. He sat up and reached for Grant's arm, but only managed to catch his sleeve. His other arm clutched tightly at his stomach. He tried to tell him that something was wrong, but the pain had moved up into his chest as well. It was hard to breath.

Grant was quick to react. Taking Julian's hand, he called for a nurse and lowered the bed down. Bashir had still been sitting. "He's hemorrhaging," he said to the nurse. "Get Dr. Pynar over here." To Julian, he spoke softly, "It's going to be alright. Just a few minutes." He had somnetic inducers in his hand. He placed these on Bashir's forehead and then sat on the edge of the bed behind him. Bashir was shaking from the pain, and his eyes had begun to bleed again. Grant crossed his arms around Bashir's and held him tightly. The inducers would take a minute or so to work.

Bashir only wanted the pain to stop. He couldn't see anymore, or at least he couldn't realize that he was seeing. And he didn't care now that it was Grant who was attending him. In fact, he was comforted by it. Grant, compared to himself at the moment, was strong, and the hands that held his own were warm. Another doctor would have strapped him down until the inducers put him to sleep, but Grant's presence behind him was comforting. And it was familiar. As the pain, and everything else, faded under the influence of the somnetic inducers, Julian felt secure, and he began to believe Grant. It was going to be alright.

_Julian jumped and sat up quickly in his bed, expecting to see monsters in all the shadows and the figure from his dream standing in his room. But it wasn't a monster. It was his father. Julian reached up for him and wrapped his arms around his neck, pressing his tear-stained face into his father's big shoulder. "It's alright, Julian," his father said, holding him tight and patting his back. "It was just a nightmare. I wouldn't let anything happen to you. It's going to be alright."_

_George snickered from the other side of the room, but Julian didn't care. George would let something happen to him. Julian felt secure in his father's strong arms, and he didn't let go_.

* * *

Julian Bashir opened his eyes and was confused to find himself in his own quarters. The lights were dimmed, but he could see the nurse sitting in a chair across the room. She was reading. "Nurse Ilona?" he asked, sitting up on his elbows.

"Oh, good! You're awake," Ilona answered, setting aside the padd she'd been reading. "How do you feel?" she asked as she scanned him with a tricorder.

"Rather well, actually," Bashir said with some surprise. He lay back down again. "How did that happen?"

"Like with Reyna," Ilona stated as if it was that simple. "The Gidari drug wore off, and Dr. Pynar was then able to put you back together again."

"What time is it? What day is it?" Bashir suddenly remembered something that Grant had said. The _Ranger _was leaving in the afternoon. "Has the _Ranger _left yet?"

"It's 1440. I believe it leaves at 1500. Why?"

_Good question_, Bashir thought. He wanted to see Grant before he left. He didn't quite understand it himself, but it was important to him. He sat up slowly. He still felt a little weak and light-headed, but otherwise he had no problems.

"You should really stay in bed, Doctor," Ilona said, standing.

"Why? You said Dr. Pynar put me back together. I feel fine." He had to go. That ship left in twenty minutes, and he might lose his chance forever. He looked his nurse in the eye. She was a good nurse. "It's important, Ilona. I have to go."

Ilona hesitated, and Bashir didn't give her time to tell him no. "I'll come right back and stay in bed all day, I promise."

She looked at him sideways for a moment thinking. Then she spoke. "Dr. Pynar's due to check in on you in twenty minutes. You better be back here before then."

"I will," Bashir promised with a smile. "Get me my uniform?" Ilona did as he asked. He checked the time again before he left. Seventeen minutes. "The computer's working?"

Ilona knew what he was thinking. "Turbolifts too," she said. "Go."

The turbolift was working. The doors opened swiftly and Bashir stepped inside. "Upper Pylon 2." The turbolift started to move, and he felt a little dizzy and had to hold on to the bars. It stopped with a jerk. Bashir smiled. Back to normal. The doors opened, and Bashir expected to see the security guards standing beside the closed airlock door that lead to the _Ranger_. But they were gone. Of course, if the computer was running this well, the terrorists must have been found, too.

Bashir touched the red panel beside the airlock and the heavy door rolled away. In contrast the ship-side door wisped opened almost silently, allowing him to enter the bright pastel-colored corridors of the _USS Ranger_.

It took a few more minutes just to find Grant's quarters again. Bashir estimated that he had only eleven or twelve minutes left. He hesitated before he rang the door. He didn't know what he was going to say. He hadn't forgiven Grant. It wasn't that simple. But he wasn't sure anymore how he did feel about him. Something had been working away at Bashir's feelings ever since Grant came on board. The hatred had gone away and left something less definable in its place.

The door opened even before Bashir had signalled his presence. Grant froze in mid-sentence when he saw him there. Commander Sisko was with him. Bashir still resented their friendship. "I'm sorry to interrupt you," Bashir said, trying to be polite.

Sisko had also been surprised to see him as well. "Did Dr. Pynar release you, Doctor?' he asked, a little concerned.

"No, sir, not exactly." Bashir did not want to lie to the commander. He remembered Dax telling him that Sisko had found him on the crossover bridge. "But the _Ranger _is leaving and I had to come . . . ." He lost the words there. He had to come and . . . what?

Sisko didn't seem to care that he'd left without permission from Pynar. "Well," he said. "I was just leaving. Please." He stepped aside so that Bashir could enter Grant's quarters. Grant still hadn't spoken.

Julian waited for the door to close behind Sisko before he tried to speak again. "I just came to say--"

But at that point, Grant was ready to speak as well. "Come in, Julian. Sit down. Would you like--"

They both stopped again at the same time. Grant waited to let Bashir speak. "No, I don't want anything. I can't stay long."

"I know." Grant turned away and moved some of the pillows on the couch. "Please sit down."

"No, thank you." Bashir turned away as well and pretended to study the lamp. He remembered it now. It had stood in their house in Stratford. "I don't even know why I came. I don't know what I want to say."

Grant sat down himself. "But you came," he said. "You don't have to say anything. And don't worry. I don't think you've forgiven me just because you came. But things have changed, haven't they?"

Bashir nodded. "They've changed. But I don't know what they've become."

"Well, we'll both have at least five years to think about it." He paused for a moment and watched Julian uncertainly. "When Elizabeth comes, would you, I mean, if you want, could you try to talk to her?"

"And try to make her understand?" Julian sighed. "I can't do that. I don't understand. I don't ever want to understand what you did."

Grant nodded sadly. Bashir couldn't see it, with his back turned to him, but he knew it just the same. "I've got to go," he said, turning back around. "It's almost time."

Grant looked up and stood. He looked like he wanted to run to his son and hold him again, one last time. But he only held out his hand. "Good-bye, Julian."

Bashir took the hand that was offered and shook it slowly. "Good-bye." Grant's hand was warm, and he remembered how it comforted him when he was a child and more recently. Part of him, the child that was still there, wanted to wrap his arms around his father's neck again. But the other side said he wasn't his father anymore. He released his hand and walked toward the door. He didn't look back, but let it open for him and close again when he was through.

Sisko stood in the corridor waiting for him. "I thought I'd walk you back," he said. "We should just make it, I think."

Bashir nodded and they began to walk. Neither spoke until they were safely back on the station. "I didn't get to thank you, Commander," Bashir said when they were in the turbolift, "for finding me. I would have died."

Sisko didn't reply but said instead, "He's your father."

"He was," Bashir answered. "Not anymore." Sisko let it go at that. The turbolift stopped on the habitat ring and Bashir headed back to his quarters. From the viewport in his bedroom he saw the wormhole open up in a brilliant swirl of colors. Dr. Pynar came in just as the _Ranger _entered it and disappeared from view.

* * *

Commander Lairton stood up from his chair as the ship--his ship--neared the wormhole. His eyes were fixed on the main viewer, where the great mouth of it opened into swirling clouds of color and light. It was unlike any other wormhole he'd ever seen. This was more than a place of passage. This was a thing of beauty.

To behold it as the ship passed through it, running beside long bands of energy that twisted and surged around them, was not to defile it as the terrorists had thought. To Lairton, it was something completely opposite. If this place in their Bajoran sky was sacred before they saw its real beauty, then how much more so it would be from here. There was nothing but admiration and awe in his mind for the beings that had made this, the Bajorans' Celestial Temple.

And then it was over. They were through and stars, new stars that no one on this crew had ever seen before, were hanging in the blackness before them. This was it: the Gamma Quadrant. Lairton felt the pride well up inside him. New stars. That was what it was all about--at least for him and Starfleet. New life, new peoples, reaching out, expanding farther and farther into this galaxy, this universe, seeing what's out there, studying it, learning from it. Exploration.

Lairton sat back down in the captain's chair. "Helm," he said, "Set course. Heading 347, mark five. Warp factor four."

"Aye, sir," Lieutenant Jenkins answered from the helm. "Course laid in."

"Okay, folks. Let's see what's out there. Now!"

Jenkins hit the control, but the ship didn't move. It came to a complete stop. The bridge lights went out, and the computer's voice again began to scream at them. "DEFILERS! You have defiled the Celestial Temple!"

When it was silent, Commander Jeffrey's voice became audible over the comm system. "The whole system's gone." He spoke quickly, as if he were in a panic. "There's nothing to stop it."

Lairton didn't need to know what he was talking about. The warp engines, the hull integrity, the antimatter chambers. It didn't matter. There was no way to stop it. The _Ranger _had sinned. "How long, Jeffrey?"

"Ten seconds, ten minutes. I can't tell you. We've got to . . ."

"Alright," Lairton interrupted. A strange calm had come over him. This, too, was it, in a way. He'd gained his command by death, and he'd lose it the same way. "All hands, abandon ship. I repeat, abandon ship."

In the dark he could hear the bridge crew scrambling from their seats. He heard the covers to the Jefferies tubes clatter when they hit the floor. The turbolifts wouldn't work. Lairton didn't move. He knew it was hopeless. Either that or he was being nostalgic. Captain Gerin had died. That made him Captain. And the captain goes down with the ship.

Then there was silence. Silence like the stars around him that he could no longer see. A single tear fell from his eye. He felt it warm and wet against his cheek as he waited, counting. _One, two, three, four_. . . . Five never came.

The _Ranger _became a star in its own right. For a brief moment it was a sun. Its light poured forth through the surrounding space before it was snuffed out by the nothingness of the universe. Chunks of metal alloy and debris floated aimlessly, spinning outward from the center where the _Ranger _had been. There were no escape pods, no shuttles. There were no survivors.

Sisko shut off the communication he'd just received, and he sat silently behind his desk, clenching hard on the baseball he held in his hand. The _Ranger_, and all one hundred and thirty-eight of her crew, were lost. A Vulcan science vessel had found the debris. No survivors. Inara Taleyn had carried out the threat she'd implied with her virus. The _Ranger _had, in her eyes, defiled the Temple, and had paid the price for doing so. Sisko thought of the families of the _Ranger_'s crew, how sad they'd be, the loss they'd feel at losing forever someone they loved. One of those family members was on his station now. Make that two.

* * *

Julian Bashir laid back in his bed and tried to sleep, but the door kept him from it. It was Sisko. His face looked hard and grim. "Julian," Sisko sighed, stepping into the room, "the _Ranger_'s been destroyed. There were no survivors. I thought you would want to know."

Sisko didn't give him time to reply before he turned and left. Julian didn't want it anyway. What would he have said? He didn't even know what to feel. Grant would never be coming back. Never.

**Epilogue**

"Julian, the Tellarite freighter, _Uglaght_, will be docking in fifteen minutes."

Bashir was checking the mirror to see if his hair looked okay. "Thank you, Jadzia. Where will they dock?"

"Port Seven. Are you expecting someone, Julian?"

Bashir thought about his reply. He had never told her about Grant. Sisko had figured out that Grant was his father, but no one knew what had happened between them. And Bashir wasn't sure he wanted anyone to know. The mystery of it all had seemed to catch Dax's attention, though. And it would be hard to hide Elizabeth. "Yes," he decided. "I'm expecting my sister. Bashir out." He cut the communication before she could ask any more questions. More of a mystery that way.

Fifteen minutes. After twenty-five years. It still didn't seem real. It was another dream, and he would wake up anytime now, still wondering what she looked like. But it was real. She'd called just yesterday. Unfortunately, he'd missed her call again. He'd been called away for an emergency surgery on Bajor. Sisko had taken the message. And for someone who didn't know the details, Sisko seemed almost as excited as Bashir about her visit.

Julian was nervous. His hands shook slightly, and he was glad that there were no patients in the Infirmary today. He'd spent the whole morning getting ready for her, cleaning his already clean quarters, combing his hair again, checking his uniform for the seventeenth time. He hadn't even had breakfast.

He checked the mirror one last time, straightening his comm badge on his uniform and tugging at his sleeves. Then he left for the docking ring. The turbolift was quick, and he arrived at the port with still five minutes to spare. He had nothing to do but wait and worry. What if she didn't like him? A lot of people, it seemed, didn't like him. Kira, for one. She found him annoying. What if he annoyed his sister?

And what if they didn't recognize each other? She'd walk right by, and he wouldn't even know it. _You're just nervous_, he told himself. She was on a Tellarite freighter. She probably wouldn't look like a Tellarite, and freighters were not usually loaded down with passengers. Recognizing her would probably not be much of a problem. And she had wanted to come. She wanted to see him as much as he wanted to see her.

The ship docked and Bashir's stomach began to tie itself into a tight knot. He took a few deep breaths to try to calm himself. The door would open as soon as it was pressurized. He realized he still expected to see a little girl when he finally saw her. But she would be twenty-five by now, a young woman, a student at Cambridge.

The door opened, causing Bashir to jump just a bit. He hadn't been paying attention. But now he was. A few Tellarites left the ship, talking loudly and jangling their latinum. They were obviously headed for Quark's. And then a young woman with long, brown, curly hair stepped tentatively over the rim of the doorway. She was trying to see around the shoulders of the big Tellarite crewmen. But then her eyes met his. She froze for a moment, blocking the door so that another Tellarite had to nudge her out of the way.

Julian stepped forward, still uncertain that she was his sister. One of her bags had slipped off her shoulder when the Tellarite pushed her. Bashir lifted it off the floor. She smiled. "I'm looking for Dr. Julian Bashir," she said.

"I'm Dr. Bashir," Julian replied slowly. He was a little startled. It _was _her.

The woman's smile grew wider. She seemed to be searching for the right words. She started to reach for his face, to touch him, but she took his hand instead. Her hand was soft and warm. "You know, you were my imaginary friend." Her voice was a whisper. There was a tear in her eye.

"And I always dreamed you as blond," Julian responded, forgetting everything he'd been carefully rehearsing for the last week.

Elizabeth laughed, but didn't say anything. She dropped the rest of her bags and threw her arms around his neck. Julian let the bag he held fall to the floor as well. He wrapped his own arms around her, and they were both standing in the doorway. But he didn't care. She was family.

THE END 

©copyright 1997 Gabrielle Lawson

Help me and my husband adopt a child! Please click this link to our Adoption site


End file.
